PZ 3 
.S545 Fr 
8 


FT MEADE 
GenCol 1 






^ c.O" O ^ 




'' ,0^ \, 

<• A .‘^SUPls''. '^. ,'i®’ .V^s^a'o .,'4' 

r.s‘ .0'' '>:^ 'o’.'.' A <. 



o M ® ^ ^ 

O. 

•o ^ 

^ ^ ^..s' <0^ 

® i» *^0 0 ® " ® -* Or • ‘' ' * ♦ 


> ^ •» 



<<y f»*o>^ V“ V^ ^ aO 

: 

• »'* A <. '"-VA" < 

0 ® " ® ♦ o “ ® -» 

r-C^ ^ ^ r 









^ ^ 




o. -*.;-.o ^q'> '%. 




5^* ■J. 

‘•A <“> ‘•'V.-' 

a'^ '.>^®1k' -no 4^ <♦ 


• A’ 



»' ”*o *, 

^ > v' ^ xO^ •i'i' v^ , 


' V ^- 


.v ^ 'O.** A ■<^ ■‘■'T^t' 

.i'*. lA c""”.. (A ^ 

' *'■1^1(1?^ ^-V ^ ♦Vrf:^!,’. ' 


6 °^ 




f V 







b^l-WESKlYTUBUCATION OF THE BEST CURKB^nTT <\STAKD?\RD LITERKTI/I 


r©l.l,Ko. 6. April*!, 1882. AimniaSubMrip«on,t50.W. 


Entered ©t the Post Office, K Y., as apcond-claiis matte! 


g^nrright. i^Vby Lovg^Co^ 


■ lo H N - w* Lovell • conpANY+ 

^' L— •' — ■ — < ji 1 gl t? v < T-O tr tf T 


mmmm 


MATCHLESS 


33 UNION SQUARE, N 


mOTHEBS 








iSOiiii^^pss 

m;poiwlarity, wd ’sxrtddy liow^' nnsmp^swd ii> q^^, ^gj«Ued 
not only ttough its sown n^rits, 

^fc . fchrou^li the m^y. origmil 

modes which have beeh^adopted ■ 
to introduce it to the attention of ^ - v>/ 
the public, - Imitation is the sih- 


merest flattery. - ^neapness - a 
poor proof of quality. Cheap mi- 
Ltations are doubly doubtfuL^>The 
most cntical -communities are the 
nost liberal puichasers of SapoUo 
invariably :^d to be"’^ 
vorth the PpeeJhey pay for it. ^ 

Whereof; we :h 

amx a ^eat seal and our cbr- '^ 

; porate title, v. ^ ^ 



®'*9®”,jy*PRCAN'8 SONS CO; 


MTHERS "AND 


A Manual of Hygiane for Women and the Household. Illustrated. 
^ By Mrs. E. G. Cook, M.D. ^ 

2 mo, extra cloth, - . - ^ 

rom commendation 

* the Mve ha^. the, of examining it, 

topics on which niuge much of S Ittrcdts 

leeks and broken constitutions!” ’ because of silent suffering, pale 

, ^ ^ ™za(leV7»t«, Perm. ' ' ' * 

okenor%iffiSiabou™bn^ herepuU^aHva^m^^ ^ deUcate/o be either 

at every mother should read and Meu put in\“ da^fSrfSdT ^ 

Times. 

A^book'of -Sound advice to iromen.” ‘ , ;, 


LApIES^'WANT^:b to. act- as Agents, to whom*' liberal te.ms 


ji V • /-I - \Aj >\xium iiiHirai le^ 




o?: 482 Van Buren Street, 
Milwaukee, Wla. ’ 


X •' I 


FRANKENSTEIN; 


Js 

n 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 



MARY W. SHELLEY. 



* Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay, 

To mould me man ? Did I solicit thee 

From darkness to promote me ? ” — Paradiss LotT 



WAIHI**'" 


NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street. 



X'S -L -x 


V :• 



) 



i: 

f 


TIIOVVC ‘ . 

(^CUCrriNO AND SOOKDIHOINQ COMPMkiq^ ^ 

new YORK. « 



Frankenstein. 


PREFACE. 

“ event on which this fiction is founded, has been 

supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and ome of the phys.*> 
logical writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. 
I shall not be supposed as recording the remotest degree of 
serious faith to such an imagination ; yet, in assuming it as 
the basis of a work of fancy, I have not co sidered myself 
as merely weaving a series of supernatur I teirors. The 
event on which the interest of the story depends is exempt 
from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres or enchant- 
ment. It was recommended by the novelty o* >e situations 
which it develops ; and, however impossible as a physical 
act, affords a point of view to tlie imagination fpi the deliii- 
ating of human passions more comprehensive and com- 
manding than any which the ordinary relations existing 
events can yield. 

I have thus endeavored to preserve the truth of . e ele- 
mentary principles of human nature, while I have not scru- 
pled to innovate upon their combinations. The “ I ad,” 
the tragic poetry of Greece ; Sh.ikspeare, in the “ Tem^ est” 
and “ Midsummer NighPs Dream ” ; and most espec ally 
Milton, in “ Paradise Lost,” — conform to this rule ; anc the 
most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive am -se- 
ment from his labors, may, without presumption, apply to 
prose fiction a license, or rather a rule, from the adoption 


6 


PREFACE. 


of which so many exquisite combinations of human feeling 
nave resulted In the highest specimens of poetry. 

The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested 
in casual conversation. It was commenced, partly as a 
source of amusement, and partly as an exj'edient for exer- 
cising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were 
mingled with these, as tlie work proceeded. 1 am by no 
means indifierent to the manner in which whatever moral 
tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it contains 
shall affect the reader ; yet my chief concern in this respect 
has been limited to the avoiding the enervating effects of the 
novels of the present day, and to the exhibition of the amia- 
Dleness of domestic affection, and the excellence of univer- 
sal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the 
character and situation of the hero are by no means to be 
conceived as existing always in my own conviction ; nor is 
any inference justly to be drawn from the following pages as 
prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind. 

It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that 
this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene 
is principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be 
regretted. I passed the summer of i8i6 in the environs of 
Geneva. The season was cold and rainy, and in the even- 
ings we crowded around a blazing woed fire, and occasion- 
ally amused ourseivcs with some German stories of ghosts, 
which happened to fall into our hands. These tales excitea 
in us a playful desire of imitation. Two other friends (a 
tale from the pen of one of whom would be far more ac- 
ceptable to the public than any thing I can ever hope to pro- 
duce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded on 
Bome supernatural occurrence. 

The weather, however, suddenly beca**'e serene ; and my 
two friends left me on a journey among me Alps, and lost, 
in the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory 
their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only on5 
which has been completed. 


PREFACE TO THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 


Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting 
“Frankenstein” for one of their series, expressed a 
wish that I should furnish them with some account of the 
origin of the story. I am the more willing to comply be- 
cause I shall thus give a general answer to the question so 
very frequently asked me, “ How I, then a young girl, came 
to think of and to dilate upon so very hideous an idea ? ” 
It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward 
in print ; but as my account will only appear as an append- 
age to a former production, and as it will be confined to 
such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I 
can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion. 

It is not singular, that, as the daughter of two persons of 
distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life 
have thought of writing. As a child, I scribbled ; and my 
favorite pastime, during tlie hours given me for recreation, 
was “ to write stories.” Still I had a dearer pleasure than 
this, which was the formation of castles in the air ; the in- 
dulging in waking dreams ; the following up trains of 
tliought, which had for their subject the formation of a suc- 
cession of imaginary incidents. My dreams were at once 
more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In the lat- 
ter I was a close imitator, — rather doing as others had done 
than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What 
I wrote was intended at least for one other eye, — my child- 
hood’s companion and friend ; but my dreams were all my 


s 


PREFACE. 


own ; I accounted foi them to nobody ; they were my refuge 
when annoyed, my deaiest pleasure when free. 

I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a 
considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to 
the more picturesque parts ; but my habitual residence was 
on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tay, near 
Dundee. Blank and dreary, on retrospection, I call them ; 
they were not so to me then. They were the eyiy' of free- 
dom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could com- 
mune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then, but in 
a most commonplace style. It was beneath the trees of the 
grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides of 
the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, 
the airy flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. 
I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life ap- 
peared to me too commonplace an aflair as regarded myself. 
I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful 
events would ever be my lot ; but I was not confined to my 
own identity, and I could people the hours with creations 
far more interesting to me, at that age, than my own sen- 
sations. 

After this, my life became busier, and reality ^tood in 
place of fiction. My husband, however, was from the first 
very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of my par- 
entage, and enroll myself on the page of fame. He was for 
ever inciting me to obtain literary reputation, which, even on 
my own part, I cared for then, though since I have become 
infinitely ihdifferent to it. At this time he desired that 1 
should write, not so much with the idea that I could produce 
any thing worthy of notice, but that he might himself judge 
how far I possessed the promise of better things hereafter. 
Still I did nothing. Travelling, and the cares of a family, 
occupied my time ; and study, in the way of reading, or 
improving my ideas in communication wi^h his far more 
cultivated mind, was all of literary employment tliac engaged 
my attention. 


PREFACE. 


9 


In the summer of i8i6, we visited Switzerland, and be* 
came the neighbors of Lord Byron. At first w’e spent our 
pleasant hours on the lake, or wandering on its shores ; and 
Lord Byron, who was writing his third canto of “ Cliilde 
Harold,” was the only one among us who put his thoughts 
upon paper. These, as he brought them successively to us, 
clothed in all the light and harmony of poetry, seemed to 
stamp as divine the glories of heaven and earth, whose influ- 
ences we partook with him. 

But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain 
often confined us for days to the house. Some volumes of 
ghost stories, translated from the German and French, fell 
into our hands. There was the History of the Inconstant 
Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he 
had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale 
ghost of her whom he had deserted. There was the tale of 
the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was 
to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his ill- 
fated house, just when they reached the age of promise. 
His gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Ham- 
let, in complete armor, but with the beaver up, was seen at 
midnight by the moon’s fitful beams, to advance slowly 
along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost beneath the 
shadow of the castle walls ; but soon a gate swung back, a 
step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he 
advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in 
healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent 
down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that 
hour withered lik'r flowers snapped upon the stalk. I have 
not seen these stories since then ; but their incidents are as 
fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday. 

“We will each write a ghost story,” said Lord Byron; 
and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of us. 
The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he 
printed at the end of his poem of “Mazeppa.” Shelley, more 
apt to embody ideas and sentiments in tk^ radiance of brih 


xo 


PRiiFACE. 


Uant imagery, and in the music of tlie most melodious verse 
tliat adorns our language, than to invent the machinery of a 
story, commenced one founded on the experiences of his 
early life. Poor Polidori had some terriWe idea about a 
skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through 
a key-hole — what to see I forget — something very shuck 
ing and wrong, of course ; but when she was reduced to 
worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coventry, he 
did not know what to do wdth her, and was obliged to de- 
spatch her to the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for 
which she was fitted. The illustrious poets, also annoyed 
by the platitude of prose, speedily relinquished tlieir uncon- 
genial task. 

I busied myself to think of a story — a story to rival 
those which had excited us to this task. One which would 
speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaking 
thrilling horror — one to make the reader dread to look 
round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the 
heart. If 1 did not accomplish these things, my ghost story 
would be unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered 
— vainly. I felt that blank incapability of invention which 
is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull Nothing re- 
plies to our anxious invocations. Have you thought of a 
story? 1 was asked each morning, and each morning I was 
forced to reply with a mortifying negative. 

Every thing must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean 
phrase ; and that beginning must be linked to something 
that went before. The Hindoos give the elephant a world 
to support it, but they make an elephant to stand upon a 
tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not 
exist in creating out of void, but out of chaos ; the materials 
must, in the first place, be afforded : it can give form to dark, 
shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the sub- 
stance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even 
of those that appertain to the imagination, we are continu- 
ally reminded of the story of Columbus and his egg. Tn* 


PREFACE. 


II 


vention consists in the capacity of seizing on the capabilities 
of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning 
ideas suggested to it. 

Many and long were the conversations between Lord By- 
ron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly silent 
listener. During one of these, various philosophical doc- 
trines were discussed, and among others, the nature of the 
principle of life, and whether there was any probability of 
its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked 
of the experiments of Dr. Darwin (I speak not of what the 
Doctor really did, or said he did, but, as more to my pur- 
pose, of what was then spoken of as having been done by 
him), who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass cage, 
till by some extraordinary means it began to move with vo . 
untary motion. Not thus, after all. Would life be given. 
Perhaps a corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had 
given token of such things ; perhaps the component parts 
of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and 
endued with vital warmtli. 

Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour 
had gone by, before we retired to rest. When I had placed my 
head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. 
My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting 
the successive images that arose in my mind witli a vivid- 
ness far beyond the usual bound of reverie. I saw — with 
shut eyes, but acute mental vision — I saw the pale student 
of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put 
together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched 
out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, 
show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half-vital motion. 
Frightful must it be ; for supremely frightful would be the 
eflect of any human endeavor to mock the stupendous mech- 
anism of the Creator of the world. His i access would 
terrify the artist ; he would rush away from his odious 
handiwork, horror-stricken. He would hoptf that, left to 
itself, the slight spark of life which he had a t««municated, 


12 


PREFACE. 


would fade ; that th.'s thing which had received such imper- 
fect animation, woild subside into dead matter; and he 
might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would 
quench for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse 
which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps : 
but he is awakened ; he opens his eyes : behold the horrid 
thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking 
on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes. 

I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, 
tliat a thrill of fear ran through me and I wished to exchange 
the ghastly image of my fancy for tlie realities around. I 
see them still ; the very room, the dark parquet^ the closed 
shutters, with the moonlight struggling through, and the 
sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps were 
beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phan- 
tom ; still it haunted me. I must try to think of something 
else. I recurred to my ghost story — my tiresome, unlucky 
ghost story ! Oh, if I could only contrive one which would 
frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened that 
night ! 

Swift as light, and as cheering, was the idea that broke in 
upon me. “ 1 have found it ! What terrified me will ter- 
rify others ; and I need only describe the spectre which had 
haunted my midnight pillow.” On the morrow I announced 
that I had thought of a story. I began that day with the 
words. It was on a dreary night in November., makirig 
only a transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream. 

At first I thought but of a few pages — of a short tale ; 
but Shelley urged me to develop the idea at greater length. 
I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident, nor 
Rjarcely of one train of feeling, to my husband, and yet, but 
for his incitement, it would never have taken the form in 
which it was presented to the world. From tb s declara- 
tion I must except the preface. As far as I can recollect, it 
was entirely written by him. 

And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth 


PREFACE. 


*3 


and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the off 
spring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, 
which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages 
speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a conversa- 
tion, when I was not alone ; and my companion was one 
who, in this world, I shall never see more. But this is for 
myself; my readers have nothing to do witli tliese associa- 
tions. 




• * 


\ •- 








! rii! If-'!' 




« > 






'’ ^ i- ^ T 
i i!J; W^rxi i 

. • » . - 

» ;/ >^Y' I' 

>11 y 




, fKr[i'iX<^ \ ! 

C ^ 

'•> ;^ rir‘ '" 

r *“'r- • • I - • • 

;i jjR.V iC tiV f 



(' 7 

. f . 4 i Q 


: . , o rt.'vrt •:< ; 


. r ) ♦ 


. ) 


■ ? 

I . • ^ f * i 






si 4 • * 


1 • . 


t. . r 


>« 


‘;} 7 I . fi('>. ( 

?i y-^ 'i 

■j ,, -. • 


• • • • • i' ' f ' 

.J-. . ■' ••'.t 


-.; -^a' cn-'in ^ 

. ,i|(‘. iC‘'\ *1' ft: •i'-*’ 

WsftjN“h 


.'Hvirii ‘n r i 


I • ' : ^ ' 

.11 . . ; •J. L ..‘^ 


t'itY.- o'V V/; 


;-n Vl'l 


;; 



-■ ; * 




4 



••V ■ •' 


f 


A 

>* 


v’> 


‘f 

*> 




.• 'J* T • • - -A 






■V- 


K 


‘. 4- ^ 




■C' 





i • * 

• ^ • .* 


> \ 


n,' 


% . .i-T>^.> <>U 


4 tt. • V 


•S\ 


• •►A ’. 

»' y 


^ ' 


» 


A. 


X-. • 


• T • 


V- r .'.*• . 
* ' •• V^l 







I • • * 


ff 


* 

S' 


•> 


* 

v- '. ^ 

‘ -- '.>• 


. 1 ' . 


. /• 


% ' 


» • 


U ,5 


'. 4 


^ • 




• V 


t 


-.V 




^ r 

.•v> 



, r ^ ■ r . *i>» -• 

M* f*f 




.r: 


'V ■' 


-/.' 




a f-' 


■t-J' 




■i-- . 




f 







^ -»V? 


r • 




'vl 



FRANKENSTEIN; 


OR, 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


LETTER I, 


TO MRS. SAVILLE, ENGLAND. 


St. Pktbrsburg, Dec. ixlfa. 17—. 



OU will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the 


-*• commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with 
such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task 
is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence 
in the success of my undertaking. 

I am already far north of London ; and as I walk in the streets 
of Petersburg, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, 
which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you under- 
stand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the re- 
gions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those 
icj' climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams 
become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that 
the pole is the seat of frost and desolation ; it ever presents itself 
to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, 
Margaret, the sun is for ever visible; its broad disk just skirting 
the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendor. There — for with 
youi leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators 
— *:here snow and frost are banished ; and, sailing over a calm sea, 
we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty 
every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its pro- 
ductions and features may be without example, as the phenomena 
of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered 
solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal 
light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts 
the needle; and may regulate a thousand celestial observations, 
that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities 


i6 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the 
sight of a part of tiie world never before visited, »nd may tread a 
land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my 
enticements, and they are sufilcient to conquer all fear of danger 
or death, and to induce me to commence tliis laborious voyage 
wiih the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with 
nis holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native 
river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be false, you camiot 
contest the inestimable benefit wliich I shall confer on all mankind 
to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to 
those countries, to reach which at present so many months are 
requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at 
all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine. 

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began 
my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which 
elevates me to Heaven; for nothing contributes so much to trar- 
quillize the mind as a steady purpose — a point on which the seal 
may flx its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favorite 
dream of my early years. I have read with ardor the accounts of 
the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of 
arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which sur- 
round the pole. You may remember, that a history of all the 
voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our 
good Uncle Thomas’s library. My education was neglected, yet 
was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study 
day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret 
which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying 
injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a sea- 
faring life. 

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those 
poets whose ^effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to Heaven. 

I also became a poet, and' for one year lived in a Paradise of my 
own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the 
temple where the names of Homer and Shakspeare are consecrated. 
You are well acquainted with my failure, and how heavily I bore 
the disappointment. But just at that time 1 inherited the fortune 
of my cousin, an^ my thoughts were turned into the channel of 
their earlier bent. 

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. 

I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself 
to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hard- 
ship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


^7 


the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want 
of sleep; I o.'ten worked harder than the common sailors during 
the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the 
theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from 
which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advan- 
tage. Twice I actually hired myself as ah undermate in a Green- 
land whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I 
felt a l.ttle proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity 
in the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnest- 
ness ; so valuable did he consider my services. 

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some 
great purpose.^ My life might have been passed in ease and lux- 
ury; but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed 
.;n my path. Oh that some encouraging voice would answer in 
the affirmative 1 My courage and my resolution is firm ; but my 
hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to 
proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of wriicti 
will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise me 
spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are 
failing. 

is the most favorable period for travelling in Russia. They 
fly quickly over the snow in their sledges ; the motion is pleasant, 
and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English 
stage-coach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapt in furs, a 
dress which I have already adopted ; for there is a great diflerence 
between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for 
hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing 
in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road 
between St. Petersburg and Archangel. 

1 shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; 
and my intention is to hire a ship there, w.hich can easily be done 
oy paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as nwiny 
oaiiors as I think necessai'y among those who are accustomed to 
die whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June: 
and when shall I return.^ Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this 
•juestionf If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will 
pass beiore you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again 
,>oon, or never. 

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down 
.lessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify 
Ay gratitude for all your love and kindness. 

Your affectionate brother, R. Walton. 


2 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


i8 


LETTER II. 

TO MRS. SAVFLLE, ENGLAND. 

Archangel, 28th March, 17 — . 

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by froil 
nd snow; yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I 
have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collectinj^ my sailors; 
those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on w'hom I 
can depend, and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage. 

But T have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, 
and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe 
evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the 
enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if 
I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavor to sustain 
me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; 
but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I 
desire the company of a man who could sympathize wdth me; 
whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my 
dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one 
near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as 
of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my^ own, to approve or 
amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of 
your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too im- 
patient of difnculties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am 
self-educated ; for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a 
common, and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’s books of 
voyages. At that age J became acquainted with the celebrated 
poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be 
in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a con- 
viction, that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with 
more languages than that of my native country. Now I am tv,'enty- 
eight, and am in reality more illiterate than many school-boys of 
fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my day 
areams are more extended and magnificent; but they want (as the 
painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who w'ould 
have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection 
enough for me to endeavor to regulate my mind. 

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no 
friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among 


I 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


*9 


merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross 
of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, 
for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise ; he is 
madly desirous of glory. He is an Englishman, and in the midst 
of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, 
retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first be- 
came acquainted with him on board a whale vessel : finding that he 
was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my 
enterprise. 

The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remark- 
able in the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness ot his dis- 
cipline. He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature that he will not hunt 
(a favorite, and almost the only amusement here), because he can- 
not endure to spill blood. He is, moreover, heroically generous 
Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady, of moderate fortune , 
and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father 
of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once more 
before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, 
throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing 
at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and 
that her father would never consent to the union. My generous 
friend re-assured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name 
of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already 
bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass 
the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, 
together with the remains of his prize-money, to purchase stock, 
and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to 
her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, 
thinking himself bound in honor to my friend; who, when he 
found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until 
he heard that his former mistress was married according to her 
inclinations. “What a noble fellow 1” you will exclaim. He is 
so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has 
scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud. 

But do not suppose that, because I complain a little, or because 
I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, 
that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, 
and my voyage is now only delayed until the weather shall permit 
my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe ; but the 
spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early* 
season; so that, perhaps, I may sail sooner than I expected. I 
shall do nothing rashly; you know me sufficiently to confide in my 


20 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is coiii« 
mitted to mj care. 

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of 
my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a con- 
ception of the trembling sensation, half fearful, with which I am 
preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “ the 
land of mist and snow; ” but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do 
not be alarmed for my safety. 

Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, 
and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I 
dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the 
reverse of the picture. Continue to write to me by every oppor- 
tunity : I may receive your letters (though the chance is very 
doubtful) on some occasions when I need them most to support my 
spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, 
should you never hear from me again. 

Your affectionate brother, 

Robert Waltok. 


LETTER III. 

TO MRS. SAVILLE, ENGLAND. 

July 7th, 17—. 

My dear Sister, — I write you a few lines in haste, to say that 
I am safe, and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach 
England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from 
Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native 
land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits : 
my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose ; nor do the float- 
ing sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of 
the region toward which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. 
We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height 
of summer, and although not so warm as England, the southern 
gales, which blow us speedily toward those shores which I so 
ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth 
which I had not expected. 

No incidents have hitherto befallen us, that would make a figure 
in a letter. One or two stiff gales, and the breaking of a mast, are 
accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to re* 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


21 


eord ; and I shall be well content, if nothing worse happens to at 
during our voyage. 

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that, for my own sake, at 
well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, 
persevering, and prudent. 

Remember me to all my English friends. 

Most affectionately yours. R. W. 


LETTER IV. 

TO MRS. SAVILLE, ENGLAND. 

August 5th, 17—. 

So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot forbear 
recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me be- 
fore these papers can come into your possession. 

Last Monday (July 31st,) we were nearly surrounded by ice, 
which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea- 
room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat danger- 
ovs, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. 
We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place 
in the atmosphere and weather. 

About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched 
out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which 
seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my 
own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a 
strange sight suddenly attracted our attention, and diverted our 
solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, 
fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at 
the distance of half a mile : a being which had the shape of a man, 
but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge, and guided the 
dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our tele- 
scopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice. 

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as 
we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this appari- 
tion seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we 
had supposed Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to fol- 
k>w his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention. 

About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; 


22 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


and before night the ice broke, and freed our *hip. We, however, 
lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those 
large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the 
ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours. 

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon 
deck, and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, 
apparently talking to some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, 
like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the. 
night, on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; 
but there was a human being within it, whom the sailors were 
persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller 
seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but 
an European. When I appeared on deck, the master said, “ Here 
is our captain, and he will not all’ow you to perish on the open 
sea.” 

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, al- 
though with a foreign accent. “ Before I come on board your 
vessel,” said he, “ will you have the kindness to inform me whither 
you are bound ? ” 

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question 
addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction, and to 
whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a 
resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious 
wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on 
a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole. 

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented to come 
on board. Good God I Margaret, if you had seen the man who 
thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been 
boundless. IJis limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully 
emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so 
wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin, 
but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted. We accord- 
ingly brought him back to the deck, and restored him to animation 
by rubbing him with brandy, and forcing him to swallow a small 
quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life, we wrapped him up 
in blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen-stove. 
By slow degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored 
him wonderfully. 

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; 
«nd I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of his 
understanding! When he had in some measure recovered, 1 re* 
moved him to my own cabin, and attended on him as much as my 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


23 


duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature ; hit 
eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness^ 
but there are moments when, if any one performs an s,ct sf kind- 
ness towards him, or does him any the most trifling service, his 
whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benev- 
olence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally 
melancholy and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his leeih, as 
if impatient of the weight of woes that oppress him. 

When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to 
keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; 
but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, 
in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended 
upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked, Why he 
nad come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle? 

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest 
gloom; and he replied, “To seek one who fled from me.” 

•‘And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fash- 
ion?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I fancy we have seen him; for, the day before we picked 
you up, we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, 
across the ice.” 

This aroused the stranger’s attention ; and he asked a multitude 
of questions concerning the route which the demon, as he called 
him, had pursued Soon after, when he was alone with me, he 
said, “I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of 
these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.” 

“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman 
in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.” 

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation? 
you have benevolently restored me to life.” 

Soon after this he inquired, if I thought that the breaking up of 
the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied, that I could not 
answer with any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken 
until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place 
a' safety before that time; but of this I could not judge. 

From this time the stranger seemed very eager to be upon deck, 
to watch for the sledge which had before appeared ; but I have 
persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for*he is far too weak to sus- 
tain the rawness of the atmosphere. And I have prom'sed that 
some one should watch for him, and give him instant notice if any 
new object should appear in sight. 


H 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


Such ifc my Joun.al of <vhat relates to this strange occurrence up 
to the present day. The sirnnger has gradually improved in health, 
but is very silent, and appears uneasy when any one except myself 
enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle, 
that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have 
fery little communication witn him. For my own part, 1 begin to 
love him as a brother; and his constant and deep grief fills me 
vith sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble 
creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive 
anti amiable. 

1 said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find 
no friend on the wide ocean ; yet I have found a man who, before 
his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to 
have possessed as the brother of my heart. 

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, 
should I have any fresh inciderrts to record. 

August 13th, 17 — . 

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at 
once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How 
can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery, without feeling 
the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is 
so cultivated ; and when he speaks, although* his words are culled 
witn the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unpa»’.alleled 
eloquence. 

He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on 
deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. 
Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own 
misery, but that he interests himself deeply in the employments of 
others. He has asked me many questions concerning mv design; 
and I nave I'elated my little history frankly to him. He appeared 
pleased with the confidence, and suggested several alterations in 
my plan, which I shall find exceedingly useful. There is no 
pedantry in his manner; but all he does appears to spring solely 
from the interest he instinctively takes in the welfare of those who 
surround him. He is often overcome by gloom, and then he sits 
by himself, and tries to overcome all that is sullen or unsocial in 
nis humor. These paroxysms pass from him like a cloud from 
before the sun, though Jiis dejection never leaves him. I have 
endeavored to win his confidence; and I trust that I have suc- 
ceeded. One day I mentioned to him the desire I had always felt 
of finding a friend whe might sympathize with me, ard direct me 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


25 


bj his counsel. I said I did not belong to that class of men who 
are offended by advice. I am self-educated, and perhaps I hardly 
rely sufficiently upon my own powers. I wish therefore that my 
companion should be wiser and more experienced than myself, to 
confirm and support me: nor have I believed it impossible to find 
ii true friend. 

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger, “in believing tha: 
filendship is not only a desirable, but a possible, acquisition. I 
once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am 
entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have hope 
and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I — 
I have lost every thing, and cannot begin life anew.” 

As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a calm 
settled grief, which touched me to the heart. But he was silent, 
and presently retired to his cabin. 

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than 
he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every 
sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seem still to have the 
power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double 
existence : he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disap 
pointments; yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a 
celestial spirit, that has a halo around him, within whose circle no 
grief or folly ventures. 

Will you laugh at the enthusiasm I express concerning this 
divine wanderer? If you do, you must certainly have lost#that 
simplicity which was once your characteristic charm. Yet, if you 
will, smile at the warmth of my expressions, while I find every day 
new causes for repeating them. 


August 19th, 17 — . 

Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, 
Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled mis- 
fortunes. I had determined, once, that the memory of these evils 
should die with me; but you have won me to alter my determina- 
tion. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I 
ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a 
seroent to sting you, as mine has been to me. I do not know that 
the relation of my misfortunes will be useful to you, yet, if you are 
inclined, listen to my tale. I believe that the strange incidents 
connected with it will afford a view of nature, which may enlarge 
your faculties and understanding. You will hear of powers and 
occurrences, such as you have been accustomed to think impossible, 


26 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 

^ut I do not doubt that my tale conveys in its series internal cvi» 
ience of the truth of the events of which it is composed.” 

You may easily conceive that I was much gratified by the offered 
communication ; yet I could not endure that he should renew his 
grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness 
to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly 
from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my power. 
I expressed these feelings in my answer. 

“ I thank you,” he replied, “ for your sympathy, but it is useless; 
my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait for but one event, and then I 
shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he, 
perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, 
my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can 
alter my destiny. Listen to my history, and you will perceive how 
irrevocably it is determined.” 

He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next 
day, when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the 
warmest thanks. I have resolved every night to record, as nearly 
as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. 
If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript 
will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who 
know him, and who hear it from his own lips, with what interest 
and sympathy shall 1 read it at some future day 


FRANKENSTEIN; 


OK, 

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


CHAPTER I. 

T AM by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most tiis- 
A tinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for inany 
years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled ».»veral 
public situations with honor and reputation. He was respected by 
all who knew him, for his integrity and indefatigable atte«tion to 
public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied 
by the affairs of his country; and it was not until the decline of life 
that he thought of marrying, and bestowing on the state sons who 
might carry his virtues and his name down to posterity. 

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I 
cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate 
friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through 
numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was 
Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition, and could not 
bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he 
had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. 
Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honorable manner, he 
retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived | 
unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the 
truest friendship, and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these 
unfortunate circumstances. He grieved also for the loss of his 
society, and resolved to seek him out and endeavor to persuade him 
to begin the world again through his credit and assistance. 

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it 
was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed 
at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a 
mean street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and 


28 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small 
sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient 
to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the mean 
time he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a mer- 
chant’s house. The interval was consequently spent in inaction. 
His grief only became more deep and rankling, when he had leisure 
for reflection; and at length it took so fast hold of his mind, that 
at the .end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapA.ble 
of any exertion. 

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but she 
saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and 
that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beau- 
fort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould ; and her courage 
rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; 
she plaited straw; and by various means contrived to earn a pit- 
tance scarcely sufficient to support life. 

Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; 
her time was more entirely occupied in attending him ; her means 
of subsistence decreased ; and in the tenth month her father died 
in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow 
overcame her; and she was kneeling by Beaufort’s coffin, when my 
father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the 
poor girl, who committed herself to his care, and after the inter- 
ment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva, and placed her 
under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event, 
Caroline became his wife. 

When my father became a husband and a parent, he found his 
time so occupied by the duties of his new situation, that he relin- 
quished many of his public employments, and devoted himself to 
the education of his children. Of these I w’as the eldest, and the 
destined successor to all his labors and utility. No creature could 
have more tender parents than mine. My improvement and health 
were their constant care, especially as I remained for several years 
iheir only child. But before I continue my narrative, I must record 
An incident w^hich took place when I was four years of age. 

My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who had 
married early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after her mar- 
riage, she had accompanied her husband into his native country, 
and for some years' my father had very little communication with 
her. About the time I mentioned she died; and a few months 
afterwards he received a letter from her husband, acquainting him 
with his intention of marrying an Italian lady, ar.d requesting my 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


29 


father to take charge of the infant Elizabeth, the only child of his 
deceased sister. “ It is my wish,” he said, “ that you should con- 
sider her as your own daughter, and educate her thus. Her moth- 
er’s fortune is secured to her, the documents of which I will commit 
coyour keeping. Reflect upon this proposition, and decide whether 
you would prefer educating your niece yourself, to her being 
brought up by a stepmother.” 

My father did not hesitate, and immediately went to Italy, that he 
might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future home. I have 
often heard my mother say, that she was at that time the most 
beautiful child she had ever seen, and showed signs even then, of a 
gentle and affectionate disposition. These indications, and a de- 
sire to bind as closely as possible the ties of domestic love, deter- 
mined my mother to consider Elizabeth as my future wife; a design 
which she never found reason to repent. 

From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow, and, as 
we grew older, my friend. She was docile and good tempered, yet 
gay and playful as a summer insect. Although she was lively and 
animated, her feelings were strong and deep, and her disposition 
uncommonly affectionate. No one could better enjoy liberty, yet 
no one could submit with more grace than she did to constraint and 
caprice. Her imagination v/as luxuriant, yet her capability of ap- 
plication was great. Her person was the image of her mind ; her 
hazel eyes, although as lively as a bird’s, possessed an attractive 
softness. Her figure was light and airy; and though capable of 
enduring great fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in 
the world. While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved 
to tend on her, as I should on a favorite animal; and I never saw 
so much grace both of person and mind united to so little preten- 
sion. 

Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any request to 
make, it was always through her intercession. We were strangers 
to any species of disunion or dispute ; for, although there was a 
great dissimilitude in our characters, there was a harmony in that 
very dissimilitude. I was more calm and philosophical than my 
companion ; yet my temper was not so yielding. My application 
was of longer endurance; but it was not so severe while it endured. 
I delighted in investigating facts relative to the actual world ; she 
busied herself in following the aerial creation of the poets. The 
world was to ire a secret which I desired to discover ; to her it was 
a vacancy which she sought to people with imaginations of hei 
own. 


30 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


My brothers were considerably younger than myself, but I had a 
friend in one of my school-fellows, who compensated for this defi- 
ciency. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva, an 
intimate friend of my father. He was a boy of singular talent and 
'ancy. I remember, when he was nine years old, he wrote a fairy 
J»le, which was the delight and amazement of all his companions. 
His favorite study consisted in books of chivalry and romance; and 
»rhen very young, 1 can remember, that we used to act plays com- 
posed by him out of these favorite books, the principal characters 
of which were Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St. George. 

^ No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My par- 
ents were indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our studies 
were never forced; and by some means we always had an end 
placed in view, which excited us to ardor in the prosecntion of 
them. It was by this method, and not by emulation, that we were 
urged to application. Elizabeth was not incited to apply herself to 
drawing, that her companions might not outstrip her; but through 
the desire of pleasing her aunt by the representation of some favor- 
ite scene done by her own hand. We learned Latin and English, 
that we might read the writings of those languages ; and so far 
from study being made odious to us by punishment, we loved appli- 
cation, and our amusements have been the labors of other children. 
Perhaps we did not read so many books, or learn languages so 
quickly, as those who are disciplined according to the ordinary 
methods ; but what we learned was impressed the more deeply on 
our memories. 

In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry Clerval, 
for he was almost constantly with us. He went to school with me, 
and generally passed the afternoon at our house ; for being an only 
child, and destitute of companions at home, his father was well 
pleased that he should find associates at our house; and we were 
never completely happy when Clerval was absent. 

I feel pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, be- 
fore misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions 
of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon 
se.f. But, in drawing the picture of iry early days, I must not omit 
to record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after 
tale of misery; for when I would account to myself for the birth of 
that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arose, like 
a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources ; but, 
swelling as it proceeded, it becan e the torrent which, in U course, 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


3 


Natural Philosophy is the genius that has regu ated my fate; 1 
desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to 
my predilection for that science. When I w^as thirteen years of 
age, we all w'ent on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon ' 
the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confn-.ed 
to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works 
of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy ; the theory which 
he attempts to demonstrate, and the wonderful facts which he 
relates, soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light 
seemed to dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with joy, I com- 
municated my discovery to my father. I cannot help remarking 
hero the many opportunities instructors possess of directing the 
attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they utterly 
neglect. My father looked carelessly at the titlepage of my book, 
and said, “ Ah I Cornelius Agrippal. My dear Victor, do not waste 
your time upon this : it is sad trash I ” 

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to ex- 
plain to me, that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely 
exploded, and that a modern system of science had been introduced, 
which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because 
the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former 
were real and practical ; under such circumstances, I should cer- 
tainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and, with my imagination 
warmed as it was, should probably have applied myself to the 
more rational theory of chemistry which has resulted from modern 
discoveries. It is even possible, that the train of my ideas would 
never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the 
cursory glance ^hy father had taken of my volume by no means 
assured me that he was acquainted with its contents ; and I con- 
tinued to read with the greatest avidity. 

When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole 
works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus 
Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with 
delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few beside my- 
self; and although I often wished to communicate these secret 
stores of knowledge to my father, yet his indefinite censure of my 
favorite Agrippa always withheld me. I disclosed my discoveries 
to Elizabeth, therefore, under a promise of strict secrecy; but she 
did not interest herself in the subject, and I was left by her to 
pursue my studies alone. 

It may appear very strange that a disciple of Albertus Magnus 
should arise in the eighteenth century; but our family was not 


32 


FRANKENSTEIN ,* OR, 


scientifical, a 4 cl I had not attended any of the lectures given at the 
public schools of Geneva. Mj dreams were therefore undisturbed 
by reality and I entered with the greatest diligence into the search 
for the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life. But the latter 
obtained my most undivided attention: wealth was an inferioi* 
object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could 
banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable 
4i> any but a violent death I 

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils 
was a promise liberally accorded by my favorite authoi's, the ful- 
filment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations 
were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my 
own inexperience and mistake, than to a want of skill or fidelity 
in my instructors. 

The natural phenomena that take place every day before our eyes 
did not escape my examination. Distillation, and the wonderful 
effects of steam, processes of which my favorite authors were 
utterly ignorant, excited my astonishment; but my utmost wonder 
was engaged by some experiments on an air-pump, which I saw 
employed by a gentleman whom we "were in the habit of visiting. • 

The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and several 
other points served to decrease their credit with me ; but I could 
not entirely thiow them aside, before some other system should 
occupy their place in my mind. 

When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to our houee 
near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thun- 
der'Storm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura; and 
the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various 
quarters of the heavens. I remained, w'hile the storm lasted, 
watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the 
door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and 
beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards from our house; 
and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, 
and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it 
the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular man- 
ner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to 
thin ribands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly de- 
stroyed. 

The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonishment; 
and I eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin of thunder 
and lightning. He replied “Electricity;” describing at the same 
time the various effects of that power. He constructed a sir all 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


^53 

electrical machire, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also 
a kite, with a wdre and spring, which drew down that fluid from 
the clouds. 

This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius Agrippa, 
Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long reigned the 
lords of my imagination. But by some fatality I did not feel 
ir.clined to commence the study of any modern system ; and fhit 
disinclination was influenced by the following circumstance: — 

My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course of 
lectures upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully consented. 
Some accident prevented my attending these lectures until the 
course was nearly finished. The lecture being therefoVe one of the 
last, was entirely incomprehensible to me. The professor discoursed 
with the greatest fluency of potassium and borono. of sulphates and 
oxyds, terms to which I could affix no idea; and I became dis- 
gusted with the science of natural philosophy, although I still read 
Pliny and Buft'on with delight, authors, in my estimation, of nearly 
equal interest and utility. 

My occupations at this age were principally the mathematics, 
an^ most of the branches of study appertaining to that science. 
I was busily employed in learning languages; Latin was already 
familiar to me, and I began to read some of the easiest Greek 
authors without the help of a lexicon. 1 also perfectly understood 
English and German. This is the list of my accomplishments at 
the age of seventeen; and you may conceive that my hours were 
fully employed in acquiring and maintaining a knowledge of this 
various literature. 

Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the in- 
structor of my brothers. Ernest was six years j'ounger than my- 
self, and was my principal pupil. He had been afflicted with ill 
health from his infancy, througn which Elizabeth and I had been 
his constant nurses: liis disposition was gentle, but he was in- 
capable of any severe application. William, the 3’oungest of our 
family was yet an infant, and the most beautiful little fellow in the 
wo/‘id; his lively blue ej'es, dimpled cheeks, and endearing man- 
ners inspired the tenderest affection. 

Such was oiiC domestic circle, from which care and pain seemed 
forever banished. My father directed our studies, and my mothei 
partook of our enjoyments. .Veither of us possessed the slightest 
pre-eminence over the other; the voice of command was never 
heard among us ; but mutual afi'ection engaged us all to comply 
with and obey the slightest desire of each other. 


34 


FRANKENSTHIN ; OR. 


CHAPTER II. 

W 1 lEN I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved 
that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. 
1 had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva; but my father 
thought it necessary, for the completion of my education, that J 
^.hould be made acquainted with other customs than those jf my 
native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date; 
but before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune 
of my life occurred — an omen, as it were, of my future misery. 

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was not 
severe, and she qiuckly recovered. During her confinement, many 
arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from 
attending upon her. She had, at first, yielded to our entreaties; 
but when she heard that her favorite was recovering, she could no 
longer debar herself from her society, and entered her chamber 
long before the danger of infection was past. The consequences of 
this imprudence were fatal. On the third day my mother sickened ; 
her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her attendants 
prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude 
and benignity of this admirable woman did not desert her. She 
joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself: “My children,” she 
said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the 
prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consola- 
tion of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place 
to your younger cousins. Alas I I regret that I am taken from you; 
and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you 
all? But these are not thoughts befitting me: I will endeavor to 
resign myself cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meet- 
ing you in another world.” 

She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection eveii 
in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest 
lies are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents 
itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the coun- 
tenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she 
whom we saw every day, and whose very existence appeared a part 
of our own, can have departed forever, tliat the brightness of 8 
oeloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice 
•o familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed never more to be 
heard. These are the reflections of the first days ; but when the 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


35 


lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then tht, actual bitter- 
ness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand 
rent away some dear connection ; and why should I describe a 
Borrow w'hich all have felt, and must feel? The time at length 
arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and 
the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a 
sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had e,t\V. 
duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course 
with the rest, and learn to think ourselves fortunate, while one re- 
mains whom the spoiler has not seized. 

My journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these 
events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my 
father a respite of some weeks. This period was spent sadly; my 
mother’s death, and my speedy departure, depressed our spirits; but 
Elizabeth endeavored to renew the spirit of cheerfulness in our little 
society. Since the death of her aunt, her mind had acquired new 
firmness and vigor. She determined to fulfil her duties with the 
greatest exactness ; and she felt that the most imperious duty, of 
rendering her uncle and cousins happy, had devolved upon her. 
She consoled me, amused her uncle, instructed my brothers; and I 
never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she was 
continually endeavoring to contribute to the happiness of others, 
entirely forgetful of herself. 

The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken leave 
of all my friends excepting Clerval, who had spent the last evening 
with us. He bitterly lamented that he was unable to accompany 
me ; but his father could not be persuaded to part with him, in- 
tending that he should become a partner with him in business, in 
compliance with his favorite theory, that learning was superfluous 
in the commerce of ordinary life. Henry had a refined mind; he 
had no desire to be idle, and was well pleased to become his father’s 
partner; but he believed that a man might be a very good trader, 
and yet possess a cultivated understanding. 

We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many little 
arrangements for the future. The next morning early I departed. 
Tears gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth ; they proceeded partly 
from sorrow at my departure, and partly because she reflected that 
the same journey was to have taken place three months before, 
when a mother’s blessing would have accompanied me. 

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and 
indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had e-'^ei 
been surrounded by amiable companions, continual’y engaged if 


36 


FRANKENSTEIN *, OR, 


endeavoring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was now alone. In the 
university whither I was going, I must form my own friends, and 
be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably 
secluded and domestic; and this had given me invincible re- 
ppgnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, 
and Clerval ; these were “old familiar faces but I believed my^ 
self totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my 
reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my 
spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowl- 
edge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain 
during my youth cooped up in one place, and had longed to enter 
the world, and take my station among other human beings. Now 
my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been 
folly to repent. 

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections dur- 
ing my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At 
length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, 
and was conducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening 
as I pleased. 

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and 
paid a visit to some of the principal professors, and among others 
to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He received me 
with politeness, and asked me several questions concerning my 
progress in the ^different branches of science appertaining to 
natural philosophy. I mentioned, it is true, with fear and trem- 
bling, the only authors I had ever read upon those subjects. The 
professor stared: “Have you,” he said, “really spent your time in 
studying such nonsense.?” 

I replied in the affirmative. “ Every minute,” continued M. 
Krempe with warmth, “ every instant that you have wasted on 
those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your 
memory with exploded systems, and useless names. Good God I 
in what desert land have ou lived, where no one was kind enough 
to inform you that these fancies, which you have so greedily 
imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are 
ancient? I little expected in this enlightened and scientific age to 
find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, 
you must begin your studies entirely anew.” 

So saying, he stepped aside, and wrote down a list of several book* 
treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to procure, 
and dismissed me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the 
following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


37 


natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Wald man, 
a fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days 
that he missed. 

I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long considered 
those authors useless whom the professor had so strongly repro- 
bated ; but I did not feel much inclined to study the books which I 
procured at his recommendation. M. Krempe was a little squat 
man, with a gruff voice and repulsive countenance; the teacher, 
therefore, did not prepossess me in favor of his doctrine. Besides, 
I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It 
was very different, when the masters of the science sought im- 
mortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; 
but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer 
seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which 
my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to 
exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little 
worth. 

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days spent 
almost in solitude. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought 
of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the 
lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that 
little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected 
what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had nev^r seen, as he 
had hitherto been out of town. ' 

Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into the 
lecturing room, whicK Waldman entered s^iortly after. This 
professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty 
ytiars of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevo- 
lence; a few gray hairs covered his temples, but those at the back 
of his head were nearly black. His person w’as short, but remarka- 
bly erect; and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He begat 
his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and ths- 
V"arious improvements made by diflerent men of learning, pro 
nouncing with fervor the names of the most distinguished discov 
erers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of tho 
science, and explained ma;iy of its elementary terms. After having 
made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric 
upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget. 

“ The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised im 
possibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters promise 
very little ; they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that 
tlie elixir of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hand* 


38 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


Beem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over th« 
microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They 
penetrate into the recesses of nature, and show how she works in 
her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have dis- 
covered how the blood cyculates, and the nature of the air we 
breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers ; 
they can command the thunders of the heaven, mimic the earth- 
quake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.” 

I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lecture, and 
paid him a visit the same evening. His manners in private were 
even more mild and attractive than in public; for there was a cer- 
tain dignity in his mien during his lecture, which in his own house 
was replaced by the gieatest affability and kindness. He heard 
with attention my little narration concerning my studies, and 
smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa, and Paracelsus, but 
without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said, that 
“ these were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers 
were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. 
They had left us an easier task, to give new names, and arrange in 
connected classifications, the facts which they in a great degree had 
been the instruments of bringing to light. The labors of men of 
genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately 
turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I listened to his state- 
ment, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation; 
and then added, that his lecture had removed my prejudices against 
modern chemists; and I at the same time requested his advice 
concerning the books I ought to‘ procure. 

“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; 
and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your 
success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which 
the greatest improvements have been made, and may be made ; it is 
on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the 
same time I have not neglected other branches of science. A man 
would make but a very sorry chemist, if he attended to that depart- 
ment of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really 
a man of science, and not a petty experimentalist, I should advise 
you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy, including 
mathematics.” 

He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to ma the 
uses of his various machines; instructing me as to what I ought to 
procure, and promising me the use of his own, when I should have 
advanced far enough in the science not to derange their mechanism. 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 39 

He also gave me the list of books which I had requested ; and 1 
took mj leave. 

Thus ended a daj memorable to me; it decided mj’ future dei-» 
tiny. 


— . 

CHAPTER III. 

T^ROM this day natural philosophy, and particularly cl emistry, 
in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly 
my sole occupation. I read with ardor those works, so full of gen- 
ius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on 
these subjects. I attended the lectures, and cultivated the acquaint- 
ance, of the men of science of the university; and I found even in 
M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information, com- 
bined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but 
not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a 
true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism ; and 
his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good na- 
ture that banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the 
amiable character of this man that inclined me^more t&'that branch 
of natural philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for 
^he science itself. But this state of mind- had place only in the first 
jteps towards knowledge : the more fully I entered into the science, 
the more exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That applica- 
tion which at first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now 
became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the 
light of morning while I was yet engaged in my laboratory. 

As I applied so closely, it maybe easily conceived that I improved 
rapidly. My ardor was indeed the astonishment of the students; 
and my proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often 
asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on ; while 
M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation in my prog- 
ress Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid no 
visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of 
some discoveries which I hoped to make. None but those who 
have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of Science. 
In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and 
there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is 
continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate 


40 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive a 
great proficiency in that study; and I who continually sought the 
attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapped up in 
this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made 
some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments,, 
which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university 
When I arrived at this point, and had become as well acquaiiite 
with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended or 
the lessons of anj-^ of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence 
there being no lori^er conducive to my improvement, I thought of 
returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident hap- 
pened that protracted my stay. 

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my atten- 
tion was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal 
endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle 
of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever 
been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we 
wpon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or careless- 
ness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances 
in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply myself more par- 
ticularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to 
physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatu- 
ral enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irk- 
some, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we 
must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the 
science of anatomy; but this was not sufficient; I must also observe 
the natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my edu- 
cation my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind 
should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever 
remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition, or to have 
feared the apparition of a spirit. Dai'kness had no eftect upon my 
fancy; and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies 
deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, 
had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the 
cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days and 
nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon 
every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human 
feelings,. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and 
wasted ; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming 
cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited tl e wonders of the eye 
and brain. I paused, examining and analyzing all the minutiae of 
causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, ans> death 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke 
in upon me, — a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that 
while I became dizzy with the immensity of prospect whicji it illus- 
trated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius, who 
i>ad directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone 
•ihould be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret. 

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The 
sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which 
I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the 
;tages of discovery were distinct and probable. After days and 
• ights of incredible labor and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering 
ihe cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capa- 
ble of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter. 

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discov- 
ery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time 
spent in painful labor, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires 
was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this dis- 
covery was so great and overwhelming, that all the steps by which 
I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld 
only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest 
men since the creation of the world, was now within my grasp. 
Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once : the 
information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my en- 
deavors so soon as I should point them towards the object of my 
search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was like 
the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a pas- 
sage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffect- 
ual, light. 

I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your 
eyes express, my friend, that ’ ou expect to be informed of the secret 
with which I am acquainted that cannot be; listen patiently until 
the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved 
upon that subject.' I will not lead you on unguarded and ardent as 
[ then was, to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from 
me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous 
is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man 
is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires 
to become greater than his nature will allow. 

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I 
hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should em- 
ploy it. Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, 
yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intriciciei 


42 


FRANKENSTEIN *, OR, 


of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceival 
difficulty and labor. I doubted at first whether I should attemp* 
the creation of a being like myself or one of simpler organizations 
but my imagination was too much exalted by my first su::cess t® 
permit me to doubt of my ability to give, life to an animal as com- 
plex and wonderful as man. The materials at present within my 
command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking, 
but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared 
myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be inces- 
santly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect; yet, when I con- 
sidered the improvement which everyday takes place in science and 
mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at 
least lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider 
the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its 
impi*acticability. It was with these feelings that I began the crea- 
tion of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a 
great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first inten- 
tion, to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about 
eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having 
formed this determination, and having spent some months in suc- 
cessfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began. 

No‘ one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me on 
wards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life 
and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break 
through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new 
species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and 
excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could 
claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve 
theire. Pursuing these reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow 
animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although 
T now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently 
devoted the body to corruption. 

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my under- 
taking with unremitting ardor My cheek had grown pale with 
study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement. 
Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung 
to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realize. 
One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had 
dedicated myself ; and the moon gazed on my midnight labors, 
while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to 
her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret 
toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, oi 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


43 


tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limb> 
now tremble and my eyes swim with the remembrance ; but then a 
resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward ; I seemed 
to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was 
indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed 
acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, 1 
had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel- 
houses, and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets 
of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the 
top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a 
gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation ; my 
eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details 
of my employment. The dissecting-room and the slaughter-house 
furnished many of my materials ; and often did my human nature 
turn with loathing from my occupation, w'hile, still urged on by an 
eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to 
a conclusion. 

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and 
soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season ; never did the 
fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more 
luxuriant vintage; but my eyes were insensible to the charms of 
nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes 
around me caused me also to forget those friends who "v^re so many 
miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew 
my silence disqujeted them; and I well remembered the words of 
my father, — “ I know that while you are pleased with yourself, you 
will I'emember us with afiection, and we shall hear regularly from 
you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in your 
correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally neg- 
lected.” 

I knew well, therefore, what would be my father’s feelings; but I 
could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in 
itself, bvt which had taken an irresistible .hold of my imagination. 
I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings 
of affection until the great object which swallowed up every habit 
of my nature should be completed. 

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my 
neglect to vice or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced 
that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether 
free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to 
preserve a calm and peaceful mind,’ and never to allow passion or a 
transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the 


44 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this i ale. If the studj to 
which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken 3'our affections, 
and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no 
alloj' can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is 
to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were always. ob- 
served, if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with 
the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been en 
•laved; Ciesar would have spared his country; America woulc 
have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico 
and Peru had not been destroyed. 

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of 
my tale; and your looks remind me to proceed. 

My father made no reproach in his letters, and only took notice 
of my silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly 
than before. Winter, Spring, and Summer passed during my 
labors ; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves, — 
sights which before always yielded me supreme delight, — so deeply 
was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had 
withered befoie my work drew near to a close; and now every day 
showed me more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthu- 
siasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one 
doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome 
trade, than an artist occupied by his favorite employment. Every 
night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a 
most painful degree, — a disease that I dreaded the more because I 
had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted 
of the firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and 
amusement w'ould soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised 
myself both .of these, when my creation should be complete. 


CHAPTER IV. 

I T was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accom 
plishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted 
to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that ] 
might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that laj^ at m> 
feet. It was already one in the morning;' the rain pattered dis* 
mally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when^ 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


45 


by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull ycllo\^ 
eye of the creature open ; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion 
agitated its limbs. 

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how de- 
lineate the wretch whom, with such infinite pains and care, 1 had 
endeavored to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I 1 ad 
selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful I Great God! His 
yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries be- 
neath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a 
pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid 
contrast with his water}' eyes, that seemed almost of the same colo? 
as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled com 
plexion, and straight black lips. 

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feel- 
ings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, 
for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For 
this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with 
an ardor that far exceeded moderation ; but now that I had finished, 
the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and dis- 
gust filled my heart. Ur.ible to endure the aspect of the being I 
had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time 
traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. 
At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured; 
and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavoring to seek 
a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain : I slept indeed, 
but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Eliza- 
beth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. 
Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the 
first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death p her 
features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse 
of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, 
and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. 
I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my fore- 
head, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, 
by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way 
through thf .> ndow-shutters, I beheld the wretch, the miserable 
monster wh^ n I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; 
and his ey 'f eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His 
jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a 
grin wrinkled his cheeks. 

He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was 
stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed 


46 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to th« 
house which I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the 
night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening 
attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to an- 
nounce the approach of the demoniacal corse to which I had so 
miserably given life. 

Oh I no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. 
A. mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous 
as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished : he w'a* 
ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered 
capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could 
not have conceived. 

I passed the night wretchedlj'. Sometimes my pulse beat so 
quickly and hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at 
others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme 
weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of dis- 
appointment : dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for 
so long a space, were now become a hell to me; and the change 
was so rapid, the overthrow so complete I 

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to 
my sleepless and aching eyes the church of IngoJstadt, its white 
steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter 
opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asy- 
lum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as 
if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the 
street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the 
apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, al- 
though wetted by the rain, which poured from a black and comfort- 
less sky. 

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavoring, 
by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. 
I traversed the streets, witl out any clear conception of where I was, 
or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; 
and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to k>ok about 
me: — 

Like one who, on a lonely road. 

Doth walk in fear and dread. 

And, having once turned round, walks on, 

And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread.* 


Coleridge’s “’Ancient Mariner.” 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


47 

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which 
the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I 
paused, I know not why; but I remained some minutes with my 
eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other 
end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was the 
Swiss diligence : it stopped just where I was standing; and, on the 
door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, 
instat'.'? Y sprung out. “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, 
“ how glad I am to see you ! how fortunate that you should be here, 
at the very moment of my alighting! ” 

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval ; his presence 
brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those 
scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, 
and in a moment forgot my horror arrd misfortune; I felt sud- 
denly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene 
joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, 
and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for 
some time about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in 
being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. You may easily believe,” 
said he, “ how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that 
it was not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to understand 
any thing except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him 
incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied 
entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch ^schoolmaster in the 
‘Vicar of Wakefield:’ ‘I have ten thousand fiorins a year without 
Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’ But his affection for me av 
length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me 
to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge.” 

“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how 
you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.” 

“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear 
from you sv) seldom. By-the-bye, I mean to lecture you a little 
upon theii account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued 
he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, “I did not before 
remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if 
you had been VNatching for several nights.” 

“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged 
in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient re^.’l, as 
you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments 
are now at an end, and that I am at length free.” 

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far 
less to allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked 


48 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I tnen 
reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom 
I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive, and walking 
about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more 
that Henry should see him. Entreating him therefore to remain a 
few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards rry 
own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before 1 
recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold shivering came 
• over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are ac- 
c^nstomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for 
them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully 
in: the apartment was empty; and my bed-room was also freed 
from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a 
good-fortune could have befallen me; but, when I became assured 
that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy, and 
ran down to Clerval. 

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought 
breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy 
only that possessed me : I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensi- 
tiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a 
single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped 
my hands and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my un- 
usual spi'-its to joy on his arrival; but when he observed me more 
attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not 
account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened 
and astonished him. 

“ My dear Victor,” cried he, “ what, for God’s sake, is the matter? 
Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are I What is the 
cause of all this?” 

“ Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for 
I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; he can 
tell. Oh, save me 1 save me!” I imagined that the monster seized 
me, i struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit. 

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, 
which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitter- 
ness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and 
did not recover my senses for a long, long time. 

This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined 
me for several months. During all that time Henry Avas my only 
nurse. I afterwards learned, that, knowing my father’s advanced 
age, and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched mj 
sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by con* 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS, 


49 


cealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have 
a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the 
liope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt, that, ‘nstead of 
doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could toward% 
them 

Bid I was in reality very ill ; and surely nothing but the unbounded 
and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to 
life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence 
was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning 
him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry; he at first believed 
them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination; but the 
pertinacity with which 1 continually recurred to the same subject 
persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some un- 
common and terrible event. 

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed 
and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I 
became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of 
pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and 
that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded 
•my window. It was a divine spring; and the season contributed 
greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and 
affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a 
short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacii^d by the 
fatal passion. ^ ^ 

“ Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good you 
are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as 
you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How 
shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the dis- 
appointment of which I have been the occasion ; but you will for- 
give me.” 

“You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose y( urself, 
but get well as fast as you can ; and since you appear in such good 
spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?” 

1 trembled. One subject I what could it be? Could he allude to 
an object on whom I dared not even think? 

“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of 
color, “I will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your fathei 
and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from yc;i 
in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have 
been, ana are uneasy at your long silence.” 

“ Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my 

4 


50 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends, whom 
I love, an(' who are so deserving of my love?” 

“ If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps bf 
glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it 
is from youi cousin, 1 believe.” 


♦ 


CHAPTER V. 

^^LERVAL then put the following letter into my hands; — 

“To V. Frankenstein. 

“ My dear Cousin, — I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we 
have all felt concerning your health. We cannot help imagining 
that your friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder; for it 
is now several months since we have seen your handwriting; and 
all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters to Henry. 
Surely, Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill; and this makes 
us all very wretched, as much so nearly as after the death of your 
dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded that you were indeed 
dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained from undertaking 
a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you are getting 
better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon 
in your own handwriting; for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all 
very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear, and we 
shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father’s health 
18 now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last 
winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly 
know him : he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly 
appearance which he had some years ago : he is grown quite I'obust 
and active. 

“My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what 
jDirrife^sion Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young 
has deprived him of the habits of application; and now that he 
enjoys good health, he is continually in the open air, climbing the 
hills, or rowing on the lake. I therefore proposed that he should 
be a farmer; which you know, cousin, is a favorite scheme of mine. 
A farmer’s is a very healthy, happy life; and the least hurtful, or 
rather the most beneficial, profession of any. My uncle had an 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


51 


idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through his interest 
he might become a judge. But, beside that he is not at all fitted 
for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to cultivate 
the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant, and 
sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of 
a laAvyer. I said that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if 
they were not a more honorable, they were at least a happie,r 
species of occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it wai 
always to meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncit 
smiled, and said that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put 
an end to the conversation on that subject. 

“And now I must tell you a little story that will please and 
perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Prob- 
ably you do not; I "will relate her history, therefore, in a few 
words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow w'ith four 
children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had alwaj's 
been the favorite of her father; but, through a strange perversity, 
her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M. Moritz, 
treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine 
was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to 
live at her house. The republican institutions of our country have 
produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in 
the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinc- 
tion between the several classes of its inhabitants ; and the lower 
orders being neither so poor nor so despised, their'manners are 
more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the 
same thing as a servant in France or England. Justine, thus 
received in our family, learned the duties of servant; a condition 
which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of 
ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being. 

“After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the 
heroine of my little tale: for Justine was a great favorite of yours; 
and I recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill humor, 
one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that 
Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica, — she looked so 
frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment 
for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior 
to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully 
repaid ; Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world : 
T do not mean that she made any professions, I never heard one 
pass her lips ; but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored 
her protectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in many 


52 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the great ;st attention to every 
gesture of my aunt. She tliought her the model of all excellence, 
and endeavored to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that 
even now she often reminds me of her. 

“ When my dearest aunt died, evei*y one was too much occupied 
in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her 
du’.ing her illness with tlve most anxious affection. Poor Justine 
was very ill ; but other trials were, reserved for her. 

“ One by one, her brothers and sister died ; and her mother, with 
the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The 
conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that 
the deaths of her favorites was a judgment from Heaven to chastise 
her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her con- 
fessor CO nfirmed the idea which she had conceived Accordingly, a 
few mon ;hs after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called 
home by her repentant mother. Poor girl 1 she wept when she 
quitted our house : she was much altered since the death of my 
aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her man- 
ners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her 
residence at her mother’s house of a nature to restore her gayety. 
The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She 
sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much 
oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers 
and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into 
a decline, wl^ch at first increased her irritability, but she is now at 
peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at 
the beginning of this last winter. Justine has returned to us; and 
I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and 
extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expres- 
sions continually remind me of my dear aunt. 

“I must say also a few words to you, iny dear cousin, of little 
darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his 
age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling 
hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, 
which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little 
wives, but Louisa Biron is his favorite, a pretty little girl of five 
years of age. 

“Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in s fittle 
gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pietty Miss 
Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her ap- 
proaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, 
Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the ricii 


THE MODliRN PROMETHEUS. 


53 


banker, last autunin. Your favorite schoolfellow, I-ouis Manoir, 
has euflered several misfortunes since the departure of C.erval from 
Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported 
to be on the point of marrying a very lively pretty French woman, 
Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir ; 
but she is very much admired, and a favorite with everybody. 

“I have written myself into good spirits, dear con.'^in ; yet 1 can- 
not conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your 
health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, vrrite yourself, and 
make your father and all of us happy; or — I cannot bear to think 
of the other side of the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, 
my dearest cousin. Elizabeth Lavenza. 

“Geneva, March i8th, 17 — .” 

“Dear, dear Elizabeth I” I exclaimed when I had read her letter; 
“ I will write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must 
feel.” I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but n y con- 
valescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In a lother 
fortnight I was able to leave my chamber. 

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval 
to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I under- 
W'ent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind 
had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end pf my labors 
and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived k violent 
antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was 
otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instru- 
ment would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry 
saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He 
had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had ac- 
quired a dislike for the room which had previously been my labora- 
tory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I 
visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he 
praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had 
made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the sub- 
ject ; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to 
modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to the 
science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. 
What could I do? He meant to please and he tormented me. 1 
felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those 
instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a 
slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not 
exhibit the pain I felt. O’erval, whose eyes and feelings vere 


54 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OK, 


always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the 
subject, alleging in excuse his total ignorance; and the conversa- 
tion took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, 
but I did not speak. I 3aw plainly that he was surprised, but he 
never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved 
him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, 
yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that event 
which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared 
the detail to another would only impress more deeply. 

M. Krempe was not equally docile ; an*^ in m3' condition at that 
time, of almost insupportable sensitivene «, his harsh, blunt enco- 
miums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation 
of M. Waldman. “ D — n the fellow! ” cried he; “ why, M. Clerval, 
I assure you he has outstripped us all. Aye, aye, stare if you please; 
but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, 
believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the gospel, has now set 
himself at the head of the universitj'; and if he is not soon pulled 
down, we shall all be out of countenance. Aye, a.ye,'’ continued he, 
observing my face expressive of suffering, “ M. Frankenstein is 
modest; an excellent qualit}- in a young man. Youhg men should 
be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval ; I was myself 
when young; but that w’ears out in a very short time.” 

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, w’hich 
happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoy- 
ing to me. 

Clerval was no natural philosopher. Ilis imagination was too 
vivid for the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal 
study; and he sojght, by acquiring their elements, to open a field 
for self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and 
Hebrew gained his attention after he had made himself perfectly 
master of Greek and Latin. For my own part, idleness had ever 
been irksome to me; and now that I wished to fly from reflection, 
and hated, my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow- 
pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but conso.a- 
tion in the works of the Orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, 
and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying 
the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, 
life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses — in the 
smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes youi 
C'wn heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of 
Greece and Rome. 

Summer passed away in these toccupations, and my return a 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


55 


Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed 
by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were 
deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing 
spring. I felt this delay very severely; for I longed to see my na- 
tive town, and my beloved friends. My return had only been 
delayed so long from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange 
place before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. 
The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring 
was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty compensated for iU 
dilatoriness. 

The month of May had already commenced, and I exoected the 
letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry 
proposed a pedestrian tour through the environs of Ingolstadt, that 
I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhab- 
ited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition : I was fond of 
exercise, and Clerval had alwaj-^s been my favorite companion in 
the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes in my 
native country. 

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations : my health and 
spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength 
from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our 
progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before 
secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and ren- 
dered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the better feelings of 
my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the 
cheerful faces of children. • Excellent friend! how sincerely did you 
love me, and endeavor to elevate my mind, until it was on a level 
with your own. A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, 
until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; 
I became the same happy creature who, a few years ago, loving and 
beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate 
nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful sen>^ 
sations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. 
The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring 
bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud : 
I was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had 
pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavors to throw them off, 
with an invincible burden. 

Henry rejoiced in my gayety, and sincerely sj^mpathized in my 
feelings : he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the 
sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this 
occasion were trily astonishing: his conversation was full of im- 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


5 ^ 

agination, and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic 
writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At 
other times he repeated my favorite poems, or drew me out into 
arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity. 

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon : the peasants 
were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My 
own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbri- 
dled joy and hilarity. 


— • — 

CHAPTER VI. 

my return, I found the following letter from my father; — 
“To V. Frankenstein. 

“ My dear Victor, — You have probably waited impatientlj' for a 
letter to fix the date of your return to us ; and I was at first tempted 
to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I 
should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare 
not do it. But what would be your surprise, my son, when you ex- 
pected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears 
and wretchedness! And how, Victor, can I relate your misfortune? 
Absence cannot have rendered jmu callous to our joys and griefs; 
and how shall I inflict pain on an absent child? I wish to prepare 
you for the woful news, but I know it is impossible; even now 
your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to con- 
vey to you the horrible tidings. 

“William is dead! that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and 
warmed my heart; who was so gentle yet so gay! Victor, he is 
murdered ! 

“I will not attempt to console you; but I will simply relate the 
circumstances of the transaction. 

“Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, 
went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, 
and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk 
before we thought of returning; and then we discovered that Wil- 
liam and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found 
We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently 
Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen his brother: he said that 
they had been playing together, that W lliam had run away to hidi 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 5'J 

himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited 
for him a long time, but that he did not return. 

“This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for 
him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have 
returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again with 
torches; for I could not rest when I thought that my sweet boy had 
lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night : 
Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the moi ii- 
ing I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had st-vii 
blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and 
motionless : the print of the murderer’s finger was on his neck. 

“ He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible on my 
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very ear- 
nest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she 
persisted, and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined 
the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, ‘ O God, 
I have murdered my darling infant! ’ 

“She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When 
she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me that 
that same evening William had teased her to let him wear a very 
valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother. The picture 
is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged the mur- 
derer to the deed. We have no trace of him at pres^^;^, although 
our exertions to discover him are unremitted; but th^ will not 
restore my beloved William. ^ 

“Come, dearest Victor; you alone can conJble Elizabeth. She 
weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his 
death; her w^ords pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will 
not that be an additional motive for you, my son, to return and be 
our comforter? Your dear mother 1 Alas, Victor! I now say, 
thank God she did not liv^ to witness the cruel, miserable death of 
her youngest darling! 

“ Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the 
assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal 
instead of festering the wt>'’nds of our minds. Enter the house of 
mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection for those who 
love you, and not with hatred for your enemies. 

“Your affectionate and alflicted father, 

“ Alphonse Frankenstein. 

“Geneva. May 12th, — .” 

C‘''7val, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, 
wab au. prised to observe the despair that succeeded to the oy I al 


58 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


first expressed on receiving news from my friends. I t.irew the let 
ter on the table, and covered my face with my hands. 

“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived 
me weep with bitterness, “are you always to be unhappy? My 
dear friend, what has happened?” 

J motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and 
down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from 
the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune. 

“I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he; “your dis- 
aster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?” 

“ To go instantly to Geneva : come with me, Henry, to order the 
horses.” 

During our walk, Clefval endeavored to raise my spirits. He did 
not do this by common topics of consolation. Those maxims of 
the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of man ought 
to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved object, 
ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his 
brother. 

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets ; the words 
impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them after- 
wards in my solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I 
hurried into a cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend. 

My journey was very melancholy. At first 1 wished to hurry on, 
for I longed to console and sympathize with my loved and sorrow- 
ing friends ; but wh^ I drew near my native town, I slackened my 
progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that 
crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes familiar to my 
youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How altered 
every thing might be during that time 1 One sudden and desolating 
change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances miglit 
have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they 
were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear 
overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand name- 
less evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define 
them. 

I remained two days at Lausanne, in thif painful state of mind 
I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was 
calm, and the snowy mountains, “ the palaces of nature,” were not 
changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, 
and I continued my journey towards Geneva. 

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as 1 
approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


59 


Rides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc; I wept like t 
child: “Dear mountains I mj own beautifnl lakel how do you 
welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and 
lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock 
at my unhappiness?” 

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling 
on these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of com- 
parative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, 
mj beloved country I who but a native can tell the delight I took 
in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than 
all, thy lovely lake. 

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. 
Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark 
mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast 
and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined 
to become the most wretched of human beings. Alas ! I prophesied 
truly, and failed only in one single circumstance, — that, in all the 
misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth 
part of the anguish that I was destined to endure. 

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva ; 
the gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass 
the night at Secheron, a village half a league to the east of the city. 
The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit 
the spot where my poor William had been murdered. ,As I could 
not pass through the town I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat 
to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the light- 
nings playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful 
figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly ; and, on landing, 
I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced ; 
the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in 
large drops, but its violence quickly increased. 

I quitted my seat and walked on, although the darkness cin^ 
storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific 
crash over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the 
Alps of Savoy; vivid '* shes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illumi- 
nating the lake, m ^ it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for 
an instant every ' .g seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye 
recovered itself m the preceding flash. The storm, as is often 
the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts , f the 
heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, 
over that part of the lake which lies between the promontory of 
Belrive and the village of Cooet. ifcjiother storm enlightened Jura 


6o 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


with faint flashes ; and another darkened and sometimes disclosed 
the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake. 

While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered 
on with a hasty step. This noble war i n the sky elevated my spirits ; 
I clasped my hands and exclaimed aload, “William, dear angel I 
this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words. I per- 
ceived a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me: 
I stood fixed, gazing intently : I could not be mistaken. A flash of 
lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly 
to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more 
hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it 
was the wretch, the filthy demon to whom I had given life. What 
did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the 
murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my im- 
agination than I became convinced of its truth ; my teeth chattered, 
and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure 
passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human 
f.hape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer! 
Z could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irre- 
sistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil ; but it 
would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me 
hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of 
Mount Saleve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He 
soon reached the summit and disappeared. 

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still 
continued, and the scene was enveloped in impenetrable darkness. 
I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to 
forget ;.vthe whole train of my progress towards the creation; the 
appearance of the work of my own hands alive at my bedside; its 
departure. Two years had now elapsed since the night on which 
he first received life; and was this his first crime? Alas, I had 
turned loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was 
in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my brother? 

No one enn conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder 
of the night, which I spent cold and wet in the open air. But I did 
not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was 
busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being 
whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will 
and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which 
he had now done, nearly in the light of n y own vampire, my own 
spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that wai 
dear to me. 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


6l 


Day dawned, and I directed my steps towards the town. The 
gates were open, and I hastened to my father’s house. My first 
thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause 
instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the 
story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed, 
and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the precipices 
of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever 
with which I had been seized just at the time that I dated my crea- 
tion, and which would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise 
so improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated 
such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the ravings 
of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude 
all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives 
to commence it. Besides, of what use would be pursuit? Who 
could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of 
Mount Saleve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to 
remain silent. 

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father’s 
house- I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into 
the library to attend their usual hour of rising. 

Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible 
trace; and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my 
father, before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and respected 
parent 1 He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my 
mother, which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an historical 
subject, painted at my father’s desire, and represented Caroline 
Beaufort in an agony of despair kneeling by the coffin of her dead 
father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an 
air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of 
pity. Below tliis picture was a miniature of William, and my tears 
flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged Ernest 
entered : he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me. 
He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me. “ Welcome, my dearest 
Victor,” said he. “Ahl I wish you had come three months ago, 
and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted. But 
we are now unhappy, an-w I am afraid tears instead of smiles will 
be your welcome. Our father looks so sorrowful : this dreadful 
event seems to have revived in his mind his grief at the, death of 
mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable.” Ernest began 
to weep as he said these words. 

“Do not,” said I, “welcome me thlis; try to be more calm, 
that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my 


62 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


father’s house after so long an absence. But, tell me, how doe# 
my father support his misfortunes; and how is my poor Eliza* 
beth?" 

•‘She indeed requires consolation: she accused herself of having 
caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. 
But since the murderer has been discovered ” 

“ The murderer discovered I Good God! how can that be? who 
could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible: one might as well 
attempt to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain stream with 
a straw.” 

“ I do not know what you mean ; but we were all very unhappy 
when she was discovered. No one would believe it at first, and 
even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the 
evidence. Indeed who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was 
so amiable, and fond of all the family, could all at once become so 
extremely wicked?” 

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is 
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, 
Ernest?” 

“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that 
have almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behavior has 
been so confused as to add to the evidence of facts a weight, that, 
I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and 
you will then hear all.” 

He related that the morning upon which the murder of poor 
William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and con- 
fined to her bed; and, after several days, one of the servants hap- 
pening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the 
murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, 
which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The 
servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without say- 
ing a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate, and, upon 
their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with 
the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure 
by her extreme confusion of manner. 

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I 
replied earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. 
Justine, poor good Justine, is innocent.” 

At that instant my father en*;ered. I saw unhappiness deeply 
impressed on his countenance, bnt he endeavored to welcome me 
cheerfully; and after we4iad exchanged our mournful gi-eeting, 
would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 

had not Ernest exclaimed, “ Good God, papa! Victor says that he 
knows who was the murderer of poor William.” 

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father; “for indeed I 
had rather hav^ been for ever ignorant than have discovered so 
much depravit} and ingratitude in one I valued so highly.” 

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.” 

“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She 
!o be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be 
»:quitted.” 

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own 
mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of 
this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial 
evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her; 
and, in this assurance, I calmed myself, expecting the trial with 
eagerness, but without prognosticating an evil result. 

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great altera- 
tions in her form since I last beheld her. Six years before she had 
been a pretty, good-humored girl, whom every one loved and 
caressed. She was now a woman in stature and expression of 
countenance, which was uncommonly lovely. An open and capa- 
cious forehead gave indications of a good understanding, joined to 
great frankness of disposition. Iler eyes were hazel, and expres- 
sive of mildness, now through recent affliction allied to sadness. 
Her hair was of a rich dark auburn, her complexion fair, and her 
figure slight and graceful. She welcomed me with the greatest 
affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” said she, “fills me 
with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor 
guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? 
I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our 
misfortune is doubly hard to us ; we have not only lost that lovely 
darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn 
away even by a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall 
know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then 
I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little Wil- 
liam.” 

“ She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “ and that shall b« 
proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assur- 
ance of her acquittal.” 

“ How kind you are I every one else believes in her guilt, and 
that made me wretched ; for I knew that it was impossible : and to 
see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner, rendered me 
hopeless and despairing.” She wept. 


64 


FRANKENSTEIN j OR, 


“Sweet niece,” said my father, “dry j’our tears. If she is, at 
you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the 
activity with which 1 shall prevent the slightest shadow of par- 
tiality.” 


CHAPTER VII. 



E passed a few sad hours, until eleven o’clock, when the trial 


“ * was to commence. My father and the rest of the family 
being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the 
court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice, I 
suffered living torture. It was to be decided, whether the result of 
my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the death of two of 
my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of joy and innocence; 
the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of 
infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror. Justine 
also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised to 
render her life happy : now all was to be obliterated in an igno- 
minious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I 
have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but 
I was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would 
have been considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not 
have exculpated her who suffered through me. 

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourn- 
ing; and her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the 
solemnity of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she- appeared 
confident in innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on 
and execrated by thousands ; for all the kindness which her beauty 
might otherwise have excited, was obliterated in the minds of the 
spectators by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to 
have committed. She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evi- 
dently constrained; and as her confusion had before been adduced 
as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearance 
of courage. When she entered the court, she threw her eyes round 
it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A tear seemed to 
dim her eye when she saw us ; but she quickly recovered herself, 
and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter guilt- 
lessness. 

The trial began ; and after the advocate against her had stated 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


65 

the charge, several^-itnesses were called. Several strange facts 
combined against her, which might have staggered any one who 
had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out 
the whole of the night on which the murder had been committed, 
and towards morning had been perceived bj^ a market-woman nc t 
far from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been 
found. The woman asked her what she did there; but she looked 
very strangely, and only returned a confused and unintelligible 
answer. She returned to the house about eight o’clock; and when 
one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied, that sJie 
had been looking for the child, and demanded earnestly, if a iy 
thing had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, sne 
fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several days. The 
picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her 
pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it 
was the same which, an hour before the child had been missed, she 
had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation 
filled the court. 

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had pro- 
ceeded, her countenance had altered. Surprise, sorrow, and misery, 
were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears; 
but when she was desired to plead, she collected her powers, and 
spoke in an audible although variable voice. 

“ God knows,” she said, “ how entirely' I am innocent. But I do 
not pretend that my protestations should acquit me : I rest my 
innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the facts which 
have been adduced against me; and I hope the character I have 
always borne will incline my judges to a favorable interpretation, 
where any circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious.” 

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had 
passed the evening of the night on which the murder had been 
committed, at the house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at 
about a league from Geneva. On her return, at about nine o’clock, 
she met a man, who asked her if she had seen any thing of the child 
who was lost. She was alarmed by this account, and passed several 
hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and 
she was forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn be- 
longing to a cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to 
whom she was well known. Unable to rest or sleep, she quitted 
her asylum early, that she might endeavor to find my brother. If 
she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it "was without her 
knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by 

5 


66 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


the market-woman, was not surprising, sin# she had passe 
sleepless night, and the fate of poor William was jet uncerf -n 
Concerning the picture she could give no account. 

“I know,” Continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily <n(i 
fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no 
power of explaining it;' and when I have expressed my utter 
rgnorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning the probabilitiM 
by which it might have been placed in my pocket. But here also I 
am checked. I belie\’’e that 1 have no enemy on earth, and none 
surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did 
the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity afforded 
him for so doing; or if I had, why should he have stolen the jewel, 
to part with it so soon? 

“I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no 
room for hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined 
concerning my character; and if their testimony shall not over- 
weigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned, although I would 
pledge my salvation on my innocence.” 

Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many 
years, and they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred of the crime 
of which they supposed her guilty, rendered them timorous, and 
unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, 
her excellent dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail 
the accused, when, although violently agitated, she desired per 
mission to address the court. 

“ I am,” said she, “ the cousin of the unhappy child who was 
murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have 
lived with his parents ever since and even long before his death. 
It may therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on 
this occasion; but when I see a fellow-creature about to perish 
through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed 
to speak, that I may say what I know of her character. I am well 
acquainted with the accused. I have lived in the same house with 
her, at one time for five, and at another for nearly two years. 
During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and 
beiievolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, 
my aun.:^ ia her last illness with the greatest affection and care; 
ana afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, 
in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her. 
After which she again lived in my uncle’s house, where she was 
oeloved by all the family. She was warmly attached to the child 
who is now dead, and acted towards him like a most affectionate 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


67 


mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say, tliat, notwith- 
standing all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely 
on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an 
action : as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had 
earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her; so 
much do I esteem and value her.” 

Excellent Elizabeth ! A murmur of approbation was heard; but 
it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favor o! 
poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with re- 
newed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude. .She 
herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own 
agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I be- 
lieved in her innocence; I knew it. Could the demon, who had (I 
did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother, also in his hell- 
ish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I 
could not sustain the horror of my situation ; and when I perceived 
that the popular voice, and the countenances of the judges, had 
already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court 
in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was 
sustained bj' innocence, and the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, 
and would not forego their hold. 

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness; In the morning J 
went to the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not 
ask the fatal question; but I was known, and the officer guessed the 
cause of my visit. The ballots had been thrown ; they were all 
black, and Justine was condemned. 

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before expe- 
rienced sensations of horror; and I have endeavored to bestow 
upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea 
of the heart-sickening de.spair that I then endured. The person to 
whom I addressed myself added, that Justine had already confessed 
her guilt. “That evidence,” he observed, “was hardly required in 
60 glaring a case, but I am glad of it; and, indeed, none of our 
judges like to condemn a criminaT. upon circumstantial evidence, be 
it ever so decisive.” 

When I returned home, Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result. 

“ My cousin,” replied I, “ it is decided as you may have expected ; 
all judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one 
guilty should escape. But she has confessed.” 

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firm- 
ness upon Justine’s innocence. “Alas I” said she, “how shall I 
ever again believe in hurran benevolence? Tustine, whom I loved 


65 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


and esteemed as tiy sister, how could she put on those smiles of 
innocence only to betray? her mild eyes seemed incapable of any 
feeverity or ill-humor, and yet she has committed a murder.” 

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a "wish to 
see my cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said that ho 
left it to her own judgment and feelings to decide. 

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I will go, although she is guilty; and 
you, Victor, shall accompany me : I cannot go alone.” The idea 
of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. 

We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sit- 
ting on some straw, at the further end; her hands were manacled, 
and her head rested on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter; 
and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at the feet 
of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept*also. 

“Oh, Justine I ” said she, “why did you rob me of my last conso- 
lation? I relied on your innocence; and although I was then very 
wretched, I was not so miserable as I am now.” 

“And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do 
you also join with my enemies to crush me?” Her voice was suffo- 
cated with sobs. 

“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth, “why do y^ou kneel, if you 
are innocent? I am not one of y'our enemies; I believed you guilt- 
less, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had 
yourself declared your guilt. That report, y^ou say, is false; and be 
assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you 
for a moment, but your own confession.” 

“I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might 
obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart 
than all my other sins. The God of Heaven forgive me! Ever 
since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threat- 
ened and menaced, until I almost began to think that I was the 
monster that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and 
hell-fire in my last moments, if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, 
I had none to support me ; all looked on me as a wretch doomed to 
ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil hour I sub- 
scribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable.” 

She paused, weeping, and then continued — “I thought witt\ 
liorror, my sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom 
your blessed aunt had so highly honored, and whom you loved, was 
a creature capable of a crin>e which none but the devil himself 
could have perpetrated. Dear William 1 dearest, blessed child I I 
soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all be happy 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


6 % 


«nd that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and 
death.” 

“Oh, Justine I forgive me for having for one moment distrusted 
you. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, my dear girl; I 
will everywhere proclaim your innocence, and foice belief. Yet 
you must die; you, my playfellow, my companion, my more than 
sister. I never can survive so horrible a misfortune.” 

“Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise me 
with thoughts of a better life, and elevUe me from the petty cares 
of this world of injustice and strife. Do you not, excellent friend, 
drive me to despair.” 

“I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too deep 
and poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope. Yet 
Heaven bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation, and a con- 
fidence elevated beyond this world. Oh I how I hate its shows and 
mockeries I when one creature is murdered, another is immediately 
deprived of life in a slow, torturing manner; then the executioners, 
their hands yet reeking withy the blood of innocence, believe that 
they have done a great deed. They call this retrihutio7i. Hateful 
name I When that word is pronounced, I know greater and more 
horrid punishments are going to be inflicted than the gloomiest ty- 
rant has ever invented to satiate his utmost revenge. Yet this is 
not consolation for you, my Justine, unless indeed that you may 
glory in escaping from so miserable a den. AlasI I would I were in 
peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped from a world 
which is hateful to me, and the visages of men which I abhor.” 

Justine smiled languidly. “This, dear lady, is despair, and not 
resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would teach me. 
Talk of something else, something that will bring peace, and not 
increase of misery.” 

During the conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison- 
room, where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me I 
Despair! who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the 
morrow was to pass the dreary boundary between life and death, 
felt not, as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, 
and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my in- 
most soul. Justine started. When she saw who it wag, she ap- 
proached me, and said, “Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me; 
you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty.” 

I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said Elizabe'.h, “ he is more 
convinced of your innocence than I was; for even when heaid 
that you had confessed, he did not credit it.” 


70 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


“I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sinoeresl 
gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness. How 
sweet is the affection of others to such a wretch as I am I It re- 
moves more than half my misfortune; and I feel as if I could die 
in peace, now that rny innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, 
and your cousin.” 

Thus the poor st fferer tried to comfort others and herself. She 
indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true mur* 
derer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed 
of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; 
out hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that 
passes over the fair moon, for a while hides, but cannot tarnish, 
its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core 
of my heart; I bore a hell within me, which nothing could extin- 
^ guish. We stayed several hours with Justine; and it was with 
great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear herself away. “ I wish,” 
cried she, “ that I were to die with you ; I cannot live in this world 
of misery.” 

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty 
repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a 
voice of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady, dearest 
Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend ; may Heaven in its bounty 
bless and preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you 
will ever suffer. Live, and be. happy, and make others so.” 

As we returned, Elizabeth said, “You know not, my dear Victor, 
how much I am relieved, now that I trust in the innocence of this 
unfortunate girl. I never could again have known peace, if I had 
been deceived in my reliance on her. For the moment that I did 
believe her guilty, I felt an anguish that I could not have long sus- 
tained. Now my heart is lightened. The innocent suffers ; but she 
whom I thought amiable and good has not betrayed the trust I 
reposed in her, and I am consoled.” 

Amiable cousin I such were your thoughts, mild and gentle as 
your own dear ejes and voice. But I — I was a wretch, and rx>n<} 
<*Yer »»nc<.ived of the misery that I then endured. 


THE MODERN IMIGMETHEUS. 


V 


CHAPTER VIII. 

'VTOTHING is more painful to the human mind, than, after the 
feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, 
the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows, and de- 
prives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died; she rested; 
and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight 
of de.spair and remorse pressed on my heart, which nothing could 
remove. Sleep fled from my eyes ; I wandered like an evil spirit, 
for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, 
and more, much more (I persuaded myself), was yet behind. Yet 
my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue. I had 
begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment 
when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my 
fellow-beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of 
conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with 
self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, 
I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me 
away to a hell of intense tortures, such as no language ,^.:an 
describe. ( 

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had entirely 
recovered from the first shock it had sustained, xj^shuni^ the face 
of man; all sound of joy and complacency was torture to me; soli- 
tude was my only consolation, — deep, dark, death-like solitude. 

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my dis- 
position and habits, and endeavored to reason with me on the folly 
of giving way to immoderate grief. “ Do you think, Victor,” said 
he, “that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more 
than I loved your brother” (tears came into his eyes as he spoke) ; 
“ but is it not a duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from 
augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate 
grief? It is also a duty owed to j^ourself ; for excessive sorrow pre- 
vents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily 
usefulness, without which no man is fit for society.” 

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; 
I should have been the first to hide my grief, and console n}y 
friends, if remorse had not mingled its bitterness with my other 
sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look cf 
despair, and endeavor to hide myself from his view. 

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change 


72 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regu- 
lar4y at ten o’clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake 
after that hour, had rendered our residence within the walls of 
Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest 
of the family had retired for the night, I took the boat, and passed 
many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was 
carried by the wind, and sometimes, after rowing into the middl 
of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course, and gave way 
to my own iniserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all 
was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that wan- 
dered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly, if I except some 
bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard 
only when I approached the shore, — often, I say, I was tempted to 
plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and 
my calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of 
the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and 
whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my 
father, and surviving brother: should I by my base desertion leave 
them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I 
let loose among them? 

At. these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would 
revifjit my mind only that I might afford them consolation and hap- 
piness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. 
I had been the author of unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, 
lest the monster whom I had created should perpetuate some new 
wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not over, and 
that he would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity 
should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was always 
scope for fear, so long as any thing I loved remained behind. My 
abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of 
him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently 
wished to extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. 
When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge 
burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage 
to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipi- 
tated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might 
wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head, and avenge the 
deaths of William and Justine. 

Our house was the house of mourning. My father’j* health was 
deeply shaken by the horror of recent events. Elizabeth was sad 
and desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occu- 
pations; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege towards the dead? 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


n 


eternal woe and tearo she then thought was the just tribute sha 
should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no 
longer that happy creature, who in earlier youth wandered with me 
on the banks of the lake, and talked with ecstasy of our future pros- 
pects. She had become grave, and often conversed on tne incon- 
stancy of fortune, and the instabilitj' of human life. 

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable 
death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as 
they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of 
vice and injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as 
tales of ancient days, or imaginary evils ; ai least they were remote, 
and more familiar to reason than to the imagination : but now mis- 
ery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting 
for each other’s blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody 
belfeved that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have commit- 
ted the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been 
the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few 
jewels to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a 
child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as 
if it had been her own ! I could not consent to the death of any 
human being; but certainly 1 should have thought such a creature 
unfit to remain in the society of men. Yet she was innocent; you 
are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas ! Victor, when 
falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of 
certain happiness.? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a 
precipice, towards which thousands are crowding, and endeavoring 
to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassin- 
ated, and the murderer escapes! he walks about the world free, and 
perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the 
scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a 
wretch.” 

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in 
ueed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my an- 
guish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand said, “My 
de.arest cousin, you must calm yourself. These events have affected 
me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. 
There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in 
your countenance, that makes me tremble. Be calm, my dear Vic- 
tor; I would sacrifice my life to j’^our peace. We surely shall be 
happy : quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the world, 
what can disturb our tranquillity.?” 

She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that 


74 


FRANKENSTEIN j OR 


she gave; but at the same time she smiled, tliat she might chaise 
awa;* the fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the 
unhappiness that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of 
that sorrow which I might naturally feel, thought an amusement 
suited to my taste would be the best means of restoring me to my 
wonted serenity. It was from this cause that he had removed to 
the country, and, induced by the same motive, he now proposed 
(hat we should all make an excursion to the valley of the Chamo- 
nix. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest never had ; 
and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the scenery 
of the place, which had been described to them as so wonderful 
and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour 
about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after 
the death of Justine. 

The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a 
sorrow to be chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this excur- 
sion would certainly have had the effect intended by my father. 
As it was, I was somewhat interested in the scene; it sometimes 
lulled, although it could not extinguish my grief. During the first 
day we travelled in a carriage. In the morning we had seen the 
mountains at a distance, towards which we gradually advanced. 
We perceived that the valley through which we wound, and which 
was formed by the river Arve, whose course we followed, closed in 
upon us by degrees; and when the sun had set, we beheld immense 
mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard 
the sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of 
waterfalls around. 

The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as we 
ascended still higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and 
astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices 
of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here 
and there peeping forth from among the trees, formed a scene of 
singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendei*ed sublime by 
the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes 
lowered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations 
© ‘ another race of beings. 

We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, whicn the 
river forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain 
that overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamo- 
nix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beauti- 
ful and picturesque as that of Servox, through which we had just 
passed. The high and snow} mountains were its immediate 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


75 


boundaries ; but we saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. 
Immense glaciers approached the road; we heard the rumbling 
thunder of the falling avalanche, and mcrked the smoke of its 
passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, 
raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles^ and its tremendous 
dome oy‘ . looked the valley. 

During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and exerted 
myself to point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I 
often suffered my mule to lag behind, and indulged in the misery 
of reflection. At other times I spurred on the animal before my 
companions, that I might forget them, the world, and, more than 
all, myself. When at a distance, I alighted, and threw myself on 
the grass, weighed down by horror and despair. At eight in the 
evening I arrived at Chamonix. My father and Elizabeth were 
very much fatigued ; Ernest, who accompanied us, was delighted, 
and in high spirits : the only circumstance that detracted from his 
pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to promise for 
the next day. 

We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I 
did not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid 
lightning that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rush- 
ing of the Arve, which ran below my window. 



CHAPTER IX. 



HE next day, contrary to the prognostications of our guide. 


was fine, although clouded. We visited the source of the 
Arveiron, and rode about the valley until evening. These sublime 
and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I 
was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of 
feeling; and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued 
and tranquillized it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind 
from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. 
I returned in the evening, fatigued, but less unhappy, and con- 
versed with my family with more cheerfulness than had been my 
custom for some time. My father was pleased, and Elizabeth over' 


76 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


joyed. “My dear cousin,” said she, “you see what happiness yo4 
diffuse when you are happy; do not relapse again! ” 

The following morning the rain poured down in torrents, and 
thick mists hid the summits of the mountains. The rain dej»ressfcu 
me; my old feelings recurred, and I was miserable. I knew how 
disappointed my father would be at this sudden change, and I 
wished to avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as to be 
enabled to conceal those feelings that overpowered me. I knew 
that they w'ould remain that day at the inn; and as I had ever 
inured myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved to go alone to 
the summit of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view 
of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my 
mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime 
ecstasy that gave wings to the soul, and allowed it to soar from the 
obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic 
in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnizing my mind, 
and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to 
go alone, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence 
of another would destroy the solemn grandeur of the scene. 

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and 
short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity 
of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thou- 
sand spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, 
where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground ; some entirely 
destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the moun- 
tain, or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend 
higher, is intersected by ravines of snow, down which stones con- 
tinually roll from above; one of them is particularly dangerous, as 
the slightest sound, such as even speaking in a loud voice, proJuces 
a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruction upon the head of 
the speaker. The pines are not tall br luxuriant, but they are 
sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the 
valley beneath ; vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran 
through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite moun- 
tains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain 
poured from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy impression 
I received from the objects around me. Alas ! why does man boast 
of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only 
renders them more necessary beings. If our impulses were con- 
fined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but 
now we are moved by every wind that bio ivt, and a chance word or 
scene that that word may convey to us. 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


77 


*‘We rest ; a dream has power to poison sleep. 

We rise ; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day. 

We feel, conceive, or reason ; laugh, or weep. 

Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away ; 

It is the same ; for, be it joy or sorrow, 

The path of its departure still is tree. 

Man’s j'esterday may ne’er be like his morrow ; 

Nought may endure but mutability.” 

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For 
seme time 1 sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist 
covered both tlat and the surrounding mountains. Presently a 
breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The 
surface is very uneven, rising like the ■^^ulves of a troubled sea, 
descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field 
of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in 
crossing it. The opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. 
From the side where I now stood Montan vert was exactly opposite, 
at the distance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awfu. 
majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on this wonder- 
ful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice, 
wound among its dependent mountains, whose aerial summits 
hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks shone in 
the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before sorfow- 
ful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed — “Wander- 
ing spirits, if ye indeed wander, and do not rest in your narrow 
beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me as your companion, 
away from the joys of life.” 

As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at soma 
distance, advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He 
bounded over the crevices of the ice, among which I had walked 
with caution ; his stature also, as he approached, seemed to exceed 
that of man. 

I was troubled : a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness 
seize me ; but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the moun- 
tains. I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous 
and abhorred!), that it was the wretch whom I had created. I 
trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach, and 
then close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his coun- 
tenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malig 
nity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible foi 
human eyes. But I scarcely observed this ; anger and hatred had at 
first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwheln? 
him with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


78 


“ Devil 1” I exclaimed, “do you dare approach me? and do you 
not fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on y(^ur miserable 
head? Begone, vile insect! or rather stay, that 1 may trample you 
to dust! ar.d, oh, that I could, with the e^ctinction of your miserable 
existence, restore those victims whom you have so diabolically 
murdered ! ” 

“I expected this reception,” said the demon. “AM men hate 
the wretched; how then must I be hated, who am miserable beyond 
all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy 
creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the 
annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you 
sport thus with life? ^o your duty towards me, and I will do 
mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply 
with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you 
refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satisfied with the 
blood of your remaining friends.” 

“Abhorred monster I fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are 
too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you re- 
proach me with your creation ; come on then, that I may extinguish 
'vhe spark which I so negligently bestowed.” 

My rage was without bounds ; I sprang on him, impelled by all the 
feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another. 

He easily eluded me, and said, — 

“Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent to 
your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, 
that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may only 
be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. 
Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my 
height is superior to thine; my joints more supple. But I will not 
be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, 
and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king, if 
^hou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me. Oh, 
Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other, and trample upon me 
alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is 
most due. Remember, that I am thy creature : I ought to be thy 
Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from 
joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone 
am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good ; misery made 
n e a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.” 

“ Begone 1 I will not hear you. There can be no community 
between you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try ou« 
strength in a fight, in which one must fall.” 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


79 


“ Ho w can l move theef Will no entieaties cause thee to turn a 
favorable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and 
compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein: I was benevolent; my 
soul glowed with love and humanity: but am I not alone, miserably 
alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from 
vour fellow-creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate 
me. The de->ert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I 
nave wandered here many days; the caves of ice, which I only do 
not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not 
grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than 
your fellow-beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my 
existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my 
destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will 
keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, arid they shall 
share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, 
and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you to 
make so great, that not only you and your family, but thousands 
of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. 
Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to 
my tale: when you have heard that,-' abandon or commiserate me, 
as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are 
allowed, by human laws, bloody as they may be, to speak in their 
own defence, before they are condemned. Listen to me, Franken- 
stein. You accuse me of murder; and yet you would, with a satis- 
fied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal 
justice of man I Yet I ask you not to spare me : listen to me; and 
then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands.” 

“Why do you call to my remembrance circumstances of which I 
shudder to reflect that I have been the miserable origin and author? 
Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! 
Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you 1 
You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me 
no power to consider whether I am just to you or not. Begone! 
relieve me from the sight of your detested form.” 

“Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” he said, and placed his bated 
hand before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; “th-js 
I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst lis:tn 
to me, and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that i once 
possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is long and 
strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your 
fine sensations ; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is 
yet high in the heavens; before it descends to hide itself behi id 


So 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


yon snowy precipices, and illuminate another world, you will have 
heard my story, and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit 
for ever tne neighborhood of man, and lead a harmless life, or be- 
come a scourge to your fellow-creatures, and the author of your 
own speedy ruin.” 

As he said this, he led the way across the ice : I followed. My 
heart was full, and I did not answer him ; but, as I proceeded, I 
weighed the various arguments that he had used, and determined 
r t least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and 
•ompassion confirmed my resolution. 1 had hitherto supposed 
him to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a con- 
firmation or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt 
what the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and that I 
ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness. 
These motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed 
the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air w.as 
cold, and the rain again began to descend : we entered the hut, the 
fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart and depressed 
spirits. But I consented to listen; and, seating myself by the fire 
which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ TT is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original 
era of my being : all the events of that period appear confused 
and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and 
I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, 
a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations 
of my various senses. By degrees, I remember, a stronger light 
piessed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes. 
Darkness then came over me, and troubled me; but hardly had I 
felt this, when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light 
poured in upon me again. I walked, and, I believe, descended; but 
I presently found a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark 
and opaque bodies had surrovinded me, impervious to my touch or 
sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with no 
obstacles which I could not either surmount or av:)id. The light 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


8l 


became more and more oppressive to me; and, the heat wearying 
me as I walked, I sought a place where 1 could reiceive shade. This 
was the forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook 
resting from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. 
This roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some ber- 
T’es which I found hanging on the trees, or lying on the ground. 
1 slaked my thirst at the brook ; and then, lying down, was overcome 
by sleep. 

It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half-frightened, 
as it were instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had 
quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered my- 
self with some clothes ; but these were insufficient to secure me from 
the dews of night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch ; I 
knew and could distinguish nothing; but, feeling pain invade me 
on all sides, I sat down and wept. 

“ Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a sen- 
sation of pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise 
from among the trees. I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved 
slowly, but it enlightened my path ; and I again went out in search 
of berries. I was still cold, when under one of the trees I found a 
huge cloak, with which I covered myself, and sat down upon the 
ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was confused. 
I felt light and hunger and thirst and darkness; innumerable 
sounds rung in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted 
me : the only object that I could distinguish was the bright moon, 
and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure. 

“ Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night 
had greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations 
from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that sup- 
plied me with drink, and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. 
I was delighted when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which 
often saluted my ears, proceeded from the throats of the little 
winged animals who had often intercepted the light fro n my eyes. 
I began also to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that sur- 
rounded me, and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of 
light which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleas 
ant songs of the birds, but was unable. Sometimes I wished to 
express my sensations in my own mode, but the uncouth and inar- 
ticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into silence 
again. 

“The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a 
lessened form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest 

6 


82 


FRANKENSTEIN j OR, 


My sensations had, by this time, become distinct, and my mind re- 
ceived every day additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to 
the light, and to perceive objects in their right forms; I distin- 
guished the insect from the herb, and, by degrees, one herb from 
another. I found that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, 
while those of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing. 

“ One day, v/hen I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which 
had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with 
delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my 
hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry 
of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should pro- 
duce such opposite effects ! I examined the materials of the fire, 
and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected 
some branches ; but they were wet, and would not burn. I was 
-'ained at this, and sat still watching the operation of the fire. 
The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried, and itself 
became inflamed. I reflected on this ; and, by touching the various 
branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself in collecting a 
great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, and have a plentiful 
supply of fire. When night came on, and brought sleep with it, I 
was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I cov- 
ered it carefully with dry wood and leaves, and placed wet branches 
upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground, and 
sunk into sleep. 

“ItM’as morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the 
fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a 
flame. I observed this also, and contrived a fan of branches, which 
roused the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When 
night came again, I found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as 
well as heat; and that the discovery of this element was useful to 
me in my food ; for I found some of the offals that the travellers 
had left had been roasted, and tasted much more savory than the 
berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my 
food in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found 
that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and 
roots much improved. > 

“Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent the whole day 
searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. 
Wlien I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitljerto 
inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would 
be more easily satisfied. In this emigration, I exceedingly lamented 
the loss of the fire which I had oltained thr^- ugh accident, and 


THE MODERN PROMETNEUS. 


83 


knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious 
consideration of this difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish all 
attempts to supply it; and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I 
struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three 
days in these rambles, and at length discovered the open country. 
A great fall of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields 
were of one uniform white; the appearance was disconsolate, and I 
found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance that covered the 
ground. 

“It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food 
and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, 
which had doubtless been built for the convenience oi some shep- 
herd. This was a new sight to me; and I examined the structure 
with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I enter^ . An old 
man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing h s breakfast. 
He turned on hearing a noise; and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, 
and, quitting the hut, i-an across the fields with a speed of which 
his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, 
different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight, somewhat 
surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the hut: 
here the snow and rain could ^ot penetrate ; .the ground was dry ; 
and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as 
Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell after their sufferings 
in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shep- 
herd’s breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; 
the latter, however, I did not like. Overcome by fatigue, I lay down 
among some straw, and fell asleep. 

“ It was noon when I awoke ; and, allured by the warmth of the 
sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, 1 determined to re- 
commence my tnavels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant’s 
breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for sev- 
eral hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous 
did this appear! the huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, 
engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetal les in the gardens, 
the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of 
the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these I en- 
tered ; but I had hardly placed my foot within the door, before the 
children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole vil- 
lage was roused ; some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously 
bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I es- 
caped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, 
quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I 


84 


FRANKENSTEIN ,* OR, 


had beheld in the village. This hovel, howevei, joined a collage 
of a neat and pleasant appearance; but, after my late dearly bought 
experience, I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed 
of wood, but so low, that I could with diHiculty sit upright in it. 
N ; wood, however, was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, 
but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by innumerable 
chinks, 1 found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain. 

“ Here then I retreated, and laj' down, happy to have found a 
shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and 
still more from the barbarity of man. 

“As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel, that I 
might view the adjacent cottage, and discover if I could remain in 
the habitation I had found. It was situated against the back of the 
cottage, and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig 
sty and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and by that 1 
had crept in ; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be 
perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might 
move them on occasion to pass out: all the light I enjoyed came 
through the sty, and that was sufficient for me. 

“ Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with clean 
straw, I retired ; for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I 
remembered too well my treatment the night before, to trust myself 
in his power. I had first, however, provided for my sustenance for 
that day, by a loaf of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup 
with which I could drink, more conveniently than from my hand, 
of the pure water which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a lit- 
tle raised, so that it was kept perfectly 'dry, and by its vicinity to the 
chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm. 

“Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel, until 
something should occur which might alter my determination. It 
was indeed a paradise, compared to the bleak forest, — my former resi- 
dence, — the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth. I ate my 
breakfast with pleasure, and was about to remove a plar k to pro- 
cure myself a little water, when I heard a step, and, looking through 
a small chink, I beheld a young creature, with a pail on her head, 
passing before my hovel. The girl was young and of gentle de- 
meanor, unlike what I have since found cottagers and farm-servants 
to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat and a 
linen jacket being her only garb; her fair hair was plaited, but not 
adorned; she looked patient, yet sad. I lost sight of her; and in 
about* a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing the pail, which 
was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along, seemingly 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


8j 

incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose coimte* 
nance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with 
an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head, and bore it to 
the cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Pres* 
ently I 'saw the young man again, with some tools in his hand, 
cross the field behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, 
sometimes in the house, and sometimes in the yard. 

“On examining my little dwelling, I found that one of the win- 
dows of the cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the 
panes had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a small 
and almost imperceptible chink, through which the eye could just 
penetrate. Through this crevice, a small room was visible, white- 
washed and clean, but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near 
a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a dis- 
consolate attitude. The young girl was occupied in arranging the 
cottage; but presently she took something out of a drawer, which 
employed her hands, and she sat down beside the old man, who, 
taking up an instrument, began to play, and to produce sounds, 
sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a 
lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch ! who had never beheld aught 
beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of 
the aged cottager won my reverence; while the gentle manners of 
the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air, which I 
perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of 
which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he 
then pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her 
work, knelt at his feet. He raised her, and smiled with such kind- 
ness and affection, that I felt sensations of a peculiar and over- 
powering nature : they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as 
I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth 
or food ; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these 
emotions. 

“Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoul- 
ders a load of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to re- 
lieve him of his burden, and, taking some of the fuel into the 
cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and the youth went apart 
into a nook of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf and a 
piece of cheese. She seemed pleased; and went into the garden 
for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then 
upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, while the young 
man w'ent into the garden, and appeared busily employed in dig- 
ging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about 


86 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR 


an hour, the young woman joined him, and they cntered‘the cottage 
together. 

“The old man had, in the mean time, jeen pensive; but, on the 
appearance of his companions, he assumed a more cheerful a'jr, and 
they sat dcwn to eat. The meal was quickly despatched. The 
young woman was again occupied in arranging the cottage; the 
old man walked before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes, 
leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty 
the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One was old, 
with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with benevolence and 
love : the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his fea- 
tures were moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and atti- 
tude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man 
returned to the cottage ; and the youth, with tools dififerent from 
those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the 
fields. 

“Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I found that 
the cottagers had a means of prolonging light, by the use of tapers, 
and was delighted to find, that the setting of the sun did not put an 
end to the pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbors. 
In the evening, the young girl and her companion were employed 
in various occupations which I did not understand; and the old 
man again took up the instrument which produced the divine 
sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had 
finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were 
monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the old man’s 
instrument nor the songs of the birds: I since found that he read 
aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or 
letters. 

“ The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time, 
extinguished their lights, and retired, as I conjectured, to rcct. 

■■ ♦ 

CHAPTER XI. 

“ T LAY on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the 
occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle 
manners of these people; and I longed to join them, but darn'd not. 

I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night befor® 
from the barbarous villagers, a ad resolved, whatever course ^ -•'oo- 


THE MODERN PROVIETHEUS, 


87 


duct I might hereafter think it riglii to pursue, that for the present 
I would remain quietly in my hovel, watching, and endeavoring to 
discover the motives which influenced their actions. 

“ The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The 
young woman arranged the cottage, and prepared the food; and tlie 
y^outh departed after the first meal. 

“This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded 
The young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the 
girl in various laborious occupations within. The old man, whom 
I soon perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his 
instrument, or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love 
and respect which the younger cottagers exhibited towards their 
venerable companion. They performed towards him every little 
office of affection and duty with gentleness; and he rewarded them 
by his benevolent smiles. 

“ They were not entirely happy. The young man and his com- 
panion often went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause 
for their unhappiness; but I was deeply affected by it. If such 
lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an im- 
perfect and solitar}’^ being, should be wretched. Yet why were 
these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house 
(for such it was in my eyes), and every luxury; they had a fire to 
warm them when chill, and delicious viands when hungry; they 
were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoj'ed one 
another’s company and speech, interchanging each day looks of 
affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they 
really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; 
but perpetual attention, and time, explained to me many appear- 
ances which were at first enigmatic. 

“A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the 
causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty; 
and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their 
nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden, 
and the milk of one cow, that gave very little during the winter, 
when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it. They 
often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, 
especially the two younger cottagers; for several times they placed 
food before the old man, when they reserved none for them- 
selves. 

“This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been ac- 
customed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my 
own consumptioii ; but when I found thivt in doing this I inflicted 


88 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


pain on the cottagers, I abstained, and satisfied myself with berries, 
nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a neighboring wood. 

“I discovered also another means through which I was enabled 
to assist their labors. I found that the youth spent a great part of- 
each day in collecting wood for the family fire; and during l..e 
night, I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, 
and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several 
days. 

“ I remember, that, the first time I did this, the young woman, 
wlien she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly 
astonished on seeing a great pile of wood , on the outside. She 
uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, 
who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did 
not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage, 
and cultivating the garden. 

“ By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found 
that these people possessed a method of communicating their ex- 
perience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I per- 
ceived that the words they spoke ‘produced either pleasure or pain, 
smiles or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers. 
This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to be- 
come acquainted with it. But I was baffied in every attempt I made 
for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick; and the words 
they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible 
objects, I was unable to discover any clew by which I could unravel 
the mystery of their reference. By great application, however, 
and after having remained during the space of several revolutions 
of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given 
to some of the most familiar objects of discourse : I learned and 
applied the words fire^ milk, bread, and wood. I learned also the 
names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion 
had each of them several names, but the old man had only one, 
which was father. The girl was called sister or Agatha; and the 
youth Felix, brother, or son. I cannot describe the delight I. felt 
when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of these sounds, and 
was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other words, 
without being able as yet to understand or apply them; such as 
good, dearest, unhapfy. 

“ I bpent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and 
beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me : when they 
were unhappy, I felt depressed ; when they rejoiced, I sympathized 
in their joys. I saw few human beings beside them ; and if any 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


89 


Other happened to enter the cottage, their harsh manners and rude 
gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments of my 
friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavored to en- 

4 ourag«^ his children, as sometimes I/ound that he called them, to 
ast oft their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with 
an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me. 
Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears, 
which she endeavored to wipe away unperceived; but I generally 
found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after hav- 
ing listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus witli 
Felix. He was always the saddest of the group; and, even to mj’ 
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than 
his friends. But, if his countenance were more sorrowful, his voice 
was more cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he ad- 
dressed the old man. 

“ 1 could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, 
marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst 
of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the 
first little white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy 
ground. Early in the morning, before she had risen, he cleared 
away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew 
water from the well, and brought the wood from the out-house, 
where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always 
replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked 
sometimes for a neighboring farmer, because he often went forth, 
and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with him. 
At other times he worked in the garden ; but, as there was little to 
do in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha. 

“This reading had puzzled me extremely at first; but, by de- 
grees, I discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when 
he read as when he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found 
on the paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently 
longed to comprehend these also; but how was that possible, 
when I did not even understand the sounds for which they stood 
as signs? I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not 
sufficiently to follow up any kind of conversation, although I 
applied my whole mind to the endeavor : for 1 easily perceived, 
that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers, 
I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become master of 
their language ; which knowledge might enable me to make them 
overlook the deformity of my figure ; for with this also the contrast 
perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acauainted. 


90 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


“ I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers, — their grace, 
beauty, and delicate complexions ; but how was I terrified when I 
viewed myself in a transparent pool ! At first I started back, unable 
to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror ; and 
when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that^ 
I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and 
mortification. Alas ! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of 
this miserable deformity. 

“ As the sun became warmer, and the light of day longer, the snow 
vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this 
time Felix was more employed ; and the heart-moving indications of 
impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found, 
was coarse, but it was wholesome ; and they procured a sufficiency 
of it. Several new kinds of plants sprung up in the garden, which 
they dressed ; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the sea- 
son advanced. 

“The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, 
when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens 
poured forth its waters. This frequently took place; but a high 
wind quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more 
pleasant than it had been. 

“My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morn- 
ing I attended the motions of the cottagers ; and when they were 
dispersed in various occupations, I slept : the remainder of the day 
was spent in observing my friends. When they had retired to rest, 
if there was any moon, or the night was star-light, I went into the 
woods, and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When 
I returned, as often as it was necessary I cleared their path from 
the snow, and performed those offices that I had seen done by 
Felix. I afterwards found that these labors, performed by an in- 
visible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard 
them, on these occasions, utter the words g^ood spirit, wonderful ; 
but I did not then understand the significaticn of thesw terms. 

“My thoughts now became more active, and I longtd to discover 
the motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive 
to know why Felix appeared so miserable, and Agatha so sad. 1 
thought (foolish wretch 1) that it might be in my power to restore 
happiness to these deserving people. When I slept, or was absent, 
the forms of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the 
excellent Felix, flitted before me. I looked upoi* tnem as superior 
>elngs, who would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed 
in my imagination a thousand pictures of p usenting myself to 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


91 


them, and their reception of me. I imagined that they would be dis- 
gusted, until by my gentle demeanor and conciliating words, I should 
first win their favor, and afterwards their love. ■* 

“These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with fresh 
ardor to the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed 
harsh, but supple ; and, although my voice was very unlike the soft 
music of their tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood, 
with tolerable ease. It was as the ass and the lap-dog ; yet surely 
the gentle ass, whose intentions were affectionate, although his man- 
ners were rude, deserved better treatment than blows and execra- 
tion. 

“The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly 
altered the aspect of the earth. Men, who before this change seemed 
to have been hid in caves, dispersed themselves, and were employed 
in various arts of cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful 
notes, and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, 
happy earth ! fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time before, 
was bleak, damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by 
the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my 
memory, the present was tranquil^- and the future gilded by bright 
rays of hope and anticipations of joy. 


■ ♦ ■ 

CHAPTER XII. 

“ T NOW hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shal 
relate events that impressed me with feelings which, from what 
I was, have made me what I am. 

“Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, artd the 
skies cloudless. It surprised me, that what before was desert and 
gloomy should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and 
verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand 
scents of delight, and a thousand sights of beauty. 

“ It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically 
rested from labor, — the old man played on his guita), and the 
children listened to him, — I observed that the countenance of Felix 
was melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently; and 
once his father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his man- 
ner that he inquired the cause of his son’s sorrow. Felix replied in 


92 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music, when 
some one tapped at the door. 

“ It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman as a 
guide. The lady was dressed in a dark suit, and covered with a 
thick black veil. Agatha asked a question ; to which the stranger 
only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. 
Her voice was musical, but unlike that of either of my friends. On- 
hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady ; who, when she 
saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic 
beauty and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and curi- 
ously braided ; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated ; 
her. features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously 
fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely tint. 

“ Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait 
of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree 
of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable ; 
his eyes sparkled- as his cheek flushed with pleasure ; and at that 
moment I thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She ap- 
peared affected by different feelings ; wiping a few tears from her 
lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it raptur- 
ously, and called her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet 
Arabian. Sne uiu noc appear to understand him, but smiled. He 
■' assisted her to dismount, and, dismissing her guide, conducted her 
into the cottage. Some conversation took place between him and 
his father; and the young stranger knelt at the old man’s feet, and 
would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and embraced her 
affectionately. 

“ I soon perceived, that, although the stranger uttered articulate 
sounds, and appeared to have a language of her own, she was 
neither understood by, nor herself understood, the cottagers. They 
made many signs which I did not comprehend ; but I saw that her 
presence diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their 
sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed 
peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. 
Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely 
stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared 
to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some 
hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, 
the cause of which I did not comprehend. ntly I found, by 

the frequent recurrence of one sound which the . tranger repeated 
after them, that. she was endeavoring to learn their language; and 
the idea instantly occurred to me, that I should make use of the 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


93 


same instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about 
twenty words at the first lesson ; most of them indeed were those 
which I had before understood, but I profited by the others. 

“ As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When 
they separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, 

‘ Good-night, sweet Safie.’ He sat up much longer, conversing with 
his father ; and, by the frequent repetition of her name, I conjectured 
that their lovely guest was the subject of their conversation. I 
ardently desired to understand them, and bent every faculty towards 
that purpose, but found it utterly impossible. 

“The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the 
usual occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the 
feet of the old man, and, taking his guitar, played some airs so en- 
trancingly beautiful, that they at once drew tears of sorrow and de- 
light from my eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, 
swelling or dying away, like a nightingale of the woods. 

“ When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at 
first declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompa- 
nied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the 
stranger. The old man appeared enraptured, and said some words, 
which Agatha endeavored to explain to Safie, and by which he ap- 
peared to wish to express that she bestowed on him the greatest 
delight by her music. 

“ The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole altera- 
tion, that joy had taken the place of sadness in the countenances of 
my friends. 'Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved 
rapidly in the knowledge of language, so that in two months I be- 
gan to comprehend most of the words uttered by my protectors. 

“ In the mean while also, the black ground was covered with herb- 
age, an: the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, 
sweet to 3 scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the 
moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the nights clear and 
balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme plea-sure to me, 
although they were considerably shortened by the late setting and 
early rising of the sun ; for I never ventured abroad during day- 
i'ght, fearful of meeting with the same treatment as I had formerly 
^?ndured in the first village which I entered. 

“ My days were spent in close attention that I might more speed- 
ily master the language; and I may boast that I improved more 
rapidly than the Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed 
in broken accents, while I comprehended and cculd imitate almost 
every word that was spoken. 


94 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


“While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, 
as it was taught to the stranger ; and this opened before me a wide 
field for wonder and delight. 

“The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney’s ‘ Ruins 
of Empires.’ I should not have understood the purport of this book, 
had not Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He 
had chosen this work, he said, because the declamatory style was 
framed in imitation of the eastern authors. Through this work I 
obtained a cursory knowledge of history, and a view of the several 
empires at present existing in the world ; it gave me an insight into 
the manners, governments, and religions of the different nations of 
the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics ; of the stupendous 
genius and mental activity of the Grecians ; of the wars and 
wonderful virtue of the early Romans, — of their subsequent degen- 
eration, — of the decline of that mighty empire; of chivalry, Chris- 
tianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the American 
hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original 
inhabitants. 

“ These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. 
Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, 
yet so vicious and base.^ He appeared at one time a mere scion of 
evil principle, and at another as all that can be conceived of noble 
and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest 
honor that can befall a sensitive being ; to be base and vicious, as 
many on record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a con- 
dition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. 
For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth 
to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and govern- 
ments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder 
ceased, and I hurried away with disgust and loathing. 

“ Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders 
to me. While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed 
upon the Arabian, the strange system of human society was ex- 
plained to me. I heard of the division of property, of immense 
wealth and squalid poverty; of rank, descent, and noble blood. 

“The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that 
the possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were high 
■and unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected 
with only one of these acquisitions; but without either he was con- 
sidered, except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, 
doomed to waste his powers for the profit of the chosen few. And 
what was I ? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely Ignorant; 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


95 


but I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of prop- 
erty. I was, besides, endowed with a figure hideously deformed 
and loathsome ; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was 
more agile than they, and could subsist upon coarser diet ; I bore 
the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame ; my 
stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around, I saw and heard 
of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from 
which all men fled, and whom all men disowned ? 

! “I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted 
upon me ; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with 
knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, 
nor known or felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat ! 

“ Of what a strange nature is knowledge ! It clings to the mind, 
when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished 
sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling ; but I learned that 
there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and 
that was death, — a state which I feared, yet did not understand. I 
admired virtue and good feelings, and loved the gentle manners 
and amiable qualities of my cottagers ; but I was shut out from in- 
tercourse with them, except throug^means which I obtained by 
stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and which rather in- 
creased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my 
fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of 
the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of 
the old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were 
not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch I 

“ Other lessons were impressed upon me even niore deeply. I 
heard of the difference of sexes; of the birth and growth of chil- 
dren; how the father doated on the smiles of the infant, and the 
lively sallies of the older child ; how all the life and cares of the 
mother were wrapped up in the precious charge; how the mind of 
youth expanded and gained knowledge; of brother, sister, and all 
the various relationships which bind one human being to another 
in mutual bonds. 

“But where were my friends and relations? No father had 
watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and 
caresses ; or, if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind 
vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From my earliest re- 
membrance I had been as I then was in height and proportion. I 
had never yet seen a being resembling me, or who claimed any 
rr.tercourse with me. What waa I? The question again recurred, 
^ be answered only with ‘jroans. 


96 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


“ I will soon explain to what these feelings tended ; but allow me 
now to reiLirn to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such vari- 
ous feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all ter- 
minated in additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I 
loved, in an innocent, half-painful self-deceit to call them). 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ 0 elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. 

It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my 
mind, unfolding as it did a number of circumstances each interesting 
and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was. 

“The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended 
from a good family in France, where he had lived for many years in 
affluence, respected by his superiors, and beloved by his equals. 
I-fis son was bred in the service of his country; and Agatha had 
ranked with ladies of the highest distinction. A few months before 
my arrival, they had lived in a large and luxurious city, called Paris, 
surrounded by friends, and possessed of every enjoyment which 
virtue, refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate 
fortune, could afl'ord. 

“The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He vras a 
Turkish merchant, and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, 
for some reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to 
the government. He w^ai seized and cast into prison the very day 
that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him. He was tried, 
and condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence was very 
flagrant; all Paris was indignant; and it was judged that his reli- 
gion and wealth, rather than the crime alleged against him, had 
been the cause of his condemnation. 

“ Felix had been present at the trial; his horror and indignation 
were uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of the court. He 
made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him, and tnen 
looked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts to 
gain admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window 
in an unguarded part of the building which lighted the dungeon of 
the unfoitunate Mahometan; who, loaded with chains, waited in 
despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


97 


“ Felix visited the grate at night, and made known to the prisoner 
his intentions in his favor. The Turk, amazed and delighted, en- 
deavored to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises cf reward 
and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt; 3'et when ne 
saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father, and who, 
by her gestures, expressed her lively gratitude, the youth could not 
Help owning to his own mind, that the captive possessed a treasui 2 
which would fully reward his toil and hazard. 

“The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter 
liad made on the heart of Felix, and endeavored to secure him more 
entirely in his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage, so 
soon as he should be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too 
delicate to accept this offer; yet he looked forward to the proba- 
bility of that event as to the consummation of his happiness. 

“ During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going for- 
ward for the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed 
by several letters that he received from this lovely girl, who found 
means to express her thoughts in the language of her lover by t 3 ie 
aid of an old man, a servant of her father’s, who understood 
French. She thanked him in the most ardent terms for his in- 
tended services towards her father; and at the same time she gehtly 
deplored her own fate. 

“I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during my 
residence in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and 
the letters were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I 
depart, I will give them to you : they will prove the truth of my 
tale; but at present, as the sun is already far declined, I shall only 
have time to repeat the substance of them to you. 

“ Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and 
made a slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had 
won the heart of the father of Safie, who married her. The young 
girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born 
In freedom, spurned the bondage to which she w'as now reduced- 
She instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion, and tauglit 
her to aspire to higher powers of intellect, and an independence of 
spirit, forbidden to the female followers of Mahomet. This lady 
died ; but her lessons w’ere indelibly impressed on the mind of Safie, 
who sickened at the prospect of again returning to Asia, and the 
being immured within the walls of a harem, allowed only to occupy 
herself with puerile amusements, ill suited to the temper of her 
soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble emulation for vir- 
tue. The prospect of marrying a Christian, and remaining in a 

7 


98 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR 


country where women were allowed to take a rank in society, wai 
enchanting to her. 

“The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, the night 
previous to it, he had quitted prison, and before morning wjfs dis- 
tant many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the 
name of his father, sister, and himself. He had previously com- 
municated his plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting 
his house, under the pretence of a journey, and concealed himself, 
with his daughter, in an obscure part of Paris. 

“Felix conduct'^d the fugitives through France to Lyons, and 
across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to 
wak a favorable opportunity of passing into some part of the 
Turkish dominions. 

“ Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of hia 
departure, before which time the Turk renewed his premise that 
she should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with 
them in expectation of that event; and in the mean time he en- 
joyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the 
simplest and tenderest alfection. They conversed with one another 
through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes wdth the inter- 
pretation of looks; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her 
native country. 

“The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encouraged 
the hopes of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed 
far other plans. He loathed the idea that his daughter should be 
united to a Christian; but he feared the resentment of Felix if he 
should appear lukewarm ; for he knew that he was still in the power 
of his deliverer, if he should choose to betray him to the Italian 
state which they inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which 
he should be enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no 
longer necessary, and secretly to take his daughter with him when 
he departed. His plans were greatly facilitated by the news which 
arrived from Paris. 

“The government of France were greatly enraged at he escape 
of their victim, and spared no paiiiS to detect and punish his de- 
liveier. The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey 
and Agatha w^re thrown into prison. The news reached Felix, and 
roused him from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father, 
and his genfie sister, lay in a noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed 
the free air, and the society of her whom he loved. This idea wa® 
torture to him. He quickly arranged with the Turk, that if the lat- 
ter should find a favorable opportunity for escape before Felix could 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


99 


retuin to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder at a convent at 
Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian, he hastened to 
Paris, anvi delivered himself up to tiie vengeance of the law, hoping 
to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding. 

“ He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months 
before the tt‘al took place; the result of which deprived them of 
their fortune, and condemned them to perpetual exile from the.r 
native country. 

“They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany- 
where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous 
Turk, for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppres- 
sion, on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty 
and impotence, became a traitor to good feeling and honor, and had 
quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance 
of money to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future main- 
tenance. 

“Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix, and 
rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his fam- 
ily. He could have endured poverty^ and, when this distress had 
been the meed of his virtue, he would have gloried in it; but the 
ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss of his beloved Safie, were 
misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian 
now infused new life into his soul. 

“When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived of 
his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to 
think no more of her lover, but prepare to return with him to her 
native country. The generous nature of Safie was outraged by this 
command; she attempted to expostulate with her father, but he left 
her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate. 

“ A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter’s apartment, 
and told her hastily, that he had reason to believe that his residence 
at Leghorn had been divulged, and that he should speedily be 
delivered up to the French government; he had, consequently, 
hired a vessel to convey him to Constantinople, for which city he 
should sail in a few hours. He intended to leave his daughter 
under the care of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure 
with the greater part of his property, which had not yet arrived at 
Leghorn. 

“ When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of con- 
duct that it would become her to pursue in this emergency. A 
residence in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and feel- 
ings were alike adverse to it. By some papers of her father’s, which 


lOO 


Frankenstein; or, 


fel into her hands, she heard of the spot where he then resided 
She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her determina- 
tion. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her, and a 
small sum of money, she quitted Italy, with an attendant, a native 
of Leghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, 
and departed for Germany. 

“ She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the 
cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. 
Safie nursed her with most devoted affection ; but the poor girl 
died, and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the lan- 
guage of the country, and utterly ignorant of the customs of the 
world. She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had 
mentioned the name of the spot for which they were bound; and 
after her death, the woman of the house in which they had lived 
took care that Safie should arrive in safety at the cottage of hei 
lover. 

— 


CHAPTER XIV. 

« OUCH was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed 
me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it 
developed, to admire their virtues, and deprecate the vices of man- 
kind. 

“As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil; benevolence and 
generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire 
to become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable 
qualities were called forth and displayed; but, in giving an account 
of the progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance 
which occurred in the beginning of the month of August of the 
same year. 

“ One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighboring 
wood, where I collected my own food, and brought home firing for 
iny protectors, i found on the ground a leathern portmanteau, con* 
aining several articles of dress and some books. I eagerly seized 
.4e prize, and returned with it to the hovel. Fortunately the books 
A-ere written in the language the elements of which I had acquired 
at the cottage; they consisted of ‘Paradise Lost,’ a volume of 
' Plutarch’s Lives,’ and the ‘Sorrows of Werter.* The possession 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


lOl 

of these pleasures gave me extreme delight; I now continuallt 
studied and exercised mj mind upon these histories, while my 
friends were employed in their ordinary occupations. 

“ I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They 
produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that some- 
times raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me into the 
lowest dejection. In the ‘ Sorrows of Werter,’ besides the interest 
of its simple and affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed, 
and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me 
obscure subjects, that I found in it a never-ending source of specu- 
lation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners de- 
scribed, combined with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had 
for their object something out of self, accorded well with my expe- 
rience among my protectors, and with the wants which were for 
ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a 
more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his char- 
acter contained no pretension, but it sunk deep. The disquisitions 
upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I 
did not pretend to enter into th^ merits of the case, yet I inclined 
towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without 
precisely understanding it. 

As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feel- 
ings and condition. I found myself similar to, yet at the same time 
strangely unlike, the beings concerning whom I read, and to whose 
conversation I was a listener. I sympathized with, and partly 
understood them, but I was uninformed in mind; I was dependent 
on none, and related to none. ‘The path of my departure was 
free,* and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person 
was hideous, and my stature gigantic: what did this mean? Who 
was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my desti- 
nation? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to 
tolve them. 

“ The volume of ‘ Plutarch’s Lives * which I possessed, con- 
tained the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. 
This book had a far different effect upon me from the ‘ Sorrows of 
Werter.’ I learned from Werter’s imaginations despondency and 
gloom: but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he elevated me 
ajove the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and 
/ove the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my 
understanding and experience. I .had a very confused knowledge 
of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless 
seas. But I was perfrctly unacquainted with towns and large 


102 


FRANKENl^^ EIN j OR, 


assemblages of men. The cottage of mj protectors had been tht 
only school in which I had studied human nature; but this book 
dereloped new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men con- 
cerned in public aifairs governing or massacring their species. 
I felt the greatest ardor for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence 
for vice, as far as I understood the signification of those terms, 
relative as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. 
Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable 
lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus 
and Theseus. The.patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these 
impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first 
introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burn- 
ing for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with differ- 
ent sensations. 

“But ‘Paradise Lost’ excited different and far deeper emotions 
I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my 
hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and 
awe that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his crea- 
tures was capable of exciting. I often remarked the several situa- 
tions, as their similarity struck me to my own. Like Adam, I was 
created, apparently united by no link to any other being in exist- 
ence; but his state was far different from mine in every other 
respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect crea- 
ture, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his 
Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge 
from, beings of a superior nature : but I was wretched, helpless, 
and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of 
my condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my 
protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me. » 

“Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feel- 
ings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel, I discovered some papers 
in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. 
At first I had neglected them; but now that I was able to decipher 
the characters in which they were written, I began to study them 
with diligence. It was your journal of the four months that pre- 
ceded my creation. You minutely described in these papers every 
step you took in the progress of your work; this history was min- 
gled with accounts of domestic occurrences. You, doubtless, recol- 
lect these papers. Here they are. Every thing is related in them 
which bears refeienc-e to my acQursed origin ; the whole detail of 
that series of disgpjsting circumstances which produced it is set in 
view; the minutest description of my odioj^^ ar.d loathsome person 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


03 


is given, in language which painted jour own horrors, 9 J ren- 
dered mine ineffaceable. I sickened as I read. ‘ Hateful d *j when 
I received life! ’ I exclaimed in agonj. ‘ Cursed creator! Whj did 
vou form a monster so hideous that even jou turned from me in 
disgust.? God in pitj made man beautiful and alluring, after his 
own image ; but mj form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid 
from its very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow- 
devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and de- 
tested.’ 

“ These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and soli- 
tude; but, when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their 
amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself, that, when 
they should become acquainted with mj \dmiration of their virtues, 
they would compassionate me, and overlook my personal deformity. 
Could they turn from their door one, howevei monstrous, who so- 
licited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to 
despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them 
which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some 
months longer; for the importance attached to its success inspired 
me with a dread le.st I should fail. Besides, I found that my •under- 
standing improved so much with every day’s experience, that I was 
unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more months 
should have added to my wisdom. 

“ Several changes, in the mean time, took place in the cottage. 
The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants; 
and I also found ihat a greater degree of plenty reigned there. 
Felix and Agat^' x spent more time in amusement and conversation, 
and were assisted in their labors by servants. They did not appear 
rich, but were contented and happy; their feelings were serene and 
peaceful, while mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase 
of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched 
outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true; but it vanished, when I 
beheld my person reflected in water, or my shadow in the moon- 
shine, even as that frail image and that inconstant shade. 

“I endeavored to crush these fears, and to fortify myself for the 
trial which in a few months I resolved to undeigo; and sometimes 
I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields 
of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sym- 
pathizing with my feelings and cheering my gloom ; their angelic 
countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a 
dream : no Eve soothed my sorrows, or shared my thoughts ; I was 
alone. I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator; but 


104 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


where was mine? he had abandoned me, and, in the bitterness of 
my heart, I cursed him. 

“ Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves 
decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak ap- 
pearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and lovely 
moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was 
better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold than 
heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers, the biids 
and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me, 1 
turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness 
was not decreased by the absence of summer. They, loved, and 
sympathized with, one another; and their joys, depending on each 
other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around 
them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to 
claim their protection and kindness ; my heart yearned to be known 
and loved by these amiable creatures : to see their sweet looks 
turned towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambi- 
tion. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with 
disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were ne’er 
driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little 
food or rest; I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not be- 
lieve myself utterly unworthy of it. 

“Thewdnter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons 
had taken place since I awoke Into life. My attention, at this time, 
was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the 
cottage of my protectors. I revolved projects; but that on which I 
finally fixed was, to enter the dwelling when the blind old man 
should be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover, that the un- 
natural hideousness of my person w'as the chief object of horror 
with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although 
harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if, in 
the absence of his children, I could gain the good-wdll and media- 
tion of the old De Lacey, I might, by his means, be tolerated by 
my younger protectors. 

“ One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the 
ground, and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, 
Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old 
man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his 
children had departed, he took up his guitar, and played several 
mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever 
heard him play before. At first his countenance was^ illuminated 
with pleasure, but, as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


io<5 

succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat ab^torbed 
in reflection. 

“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, 
which would decide my hopes, or realize my fears. The servants 
were gone to a neighboring fair. All was silent in and around the 
cottage: it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to 
execute my plan, my limbs failed me, and I sunk to the ground. 
Again I rose; and, exerting all the firmness of which I was master, 
removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal 
my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and, with renewed determina- 
tion, I approached the door of their cottage. 

“I knocked. ‘Who is there?’ said the old man, — ‘Come in.’ 

“I entered; ‘Pardon this intrusion,’ said I, ‘I am a traveller in 
want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you would al- 
low me to remain a few minutes before the fire.’ 

“ ‘ Enter,’ said De Lacey; ‘ and I will try in what manner I can 
relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, 
and, as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food 
for you.’ 

‘“Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food: it is 
rrarmth and rest only that I need.’ 

“ I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute 
was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to 
commence the interview; when the old man addressed me: — 

“ ‘ By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman ; 
are you French ? ’ 

‘“No; but I was educated by a French family, and understand 
that language only. I am now going to claim the protection of 
some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favor I hare 
some hopes.’ 

“ ‘‘Are these Germans?’ 

“ ‘ No, they are French. But let us change the subject. 1 am an 
unfortunate and deserted creature; I look around, and have no rela- 
tion or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go 
have never seen me, and know little of me. ^ I am full of fears; for, 
if I*fail there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.’ 

“ ‘ Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate; 
but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self* 
interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, 
on your hopes; and, if these friends are good and amiable, do not 
despair.’ 

“‘They are kind — they are the m®st excel *ent creatures in the 


Frankenstein; or. 


io6 

world; but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I hav« 
good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless, and, in 
some degree, beneficial ; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, 
and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold 
only a detestable monster.’ 

‘“That is indeed unfortunate; but, if you are really blameless, 
cannot you undeceive them?’ 

‘“I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account 
that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these 
friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the 
habits of daily kindness towards them ; but they believe that I 
wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish to over- 
come.’ 

“ ‘ Where do these friends reside? 

“ ‘ Near this spot. 

“ The old man paused, and then continued, ‘ If you will un- 
reservedly confide to me the particulars of your tale, I may perhaps 
be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind, and cannot Judge of 
your countenance, but there is something in your words which 
persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor, and an exile; but it 
will afford me true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human 
creature.’ 

“ ‘ Excellent man ! I thank you, and accept your generous offer. 
You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust, that, by 
your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of 
your fellow-creatures.’ 

“ ‘ Heaven forbid ! even if you were really criminal ; for that can 
only drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I 
also am unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, 
although innocent: Judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your mis- 
fortunes.” • • 

“‘How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From 
your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards 
rne; I shall be for ever grateful; and your present humanity as- 
sures me of success with those friends whom I am on the point of 
niee^'ng.’ « 

‘ ‘ May I know the names and residence of those friends?’ 

“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which 
was to rob me of, or bestow, happiness on me for ever. I struggled 
vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed 
all my remaining strength ; I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud. 
At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


107 


not a moment to lose ; but, seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, 
*Now is the time! save and protect me! You and your family arc 
the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of 
trial I ’ 

“ ‘ Great God ! ’ exclaimed the old man, ‘ who are you ? ’ 

“ At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, 
and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and conster- 
nation on beholding me.^ Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to 
attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted for- 
ward, and with supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose 
knees I clung. In a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground, 
and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb 
from limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sank with- 
in me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the 
point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, 
I. quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unper- 
ceived to my hovel. 


CHAPTER XV. 



DRSED, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that 


instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which 
you had so wantonly bestowed ? I know not; despair had not yet 
taken possession of me ; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. 
I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants, 
and have glutted myself with their shrieks and misery. 

“When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered in the 
wood; and now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I 
gave vent to my anguish in fearful bowlings. I was like a wild 
beast that had broken the toils; destroying the objects that ob- 
structed me, and ranging through the wood with a stag-like swift- 
ness. Oh! what a miserable night I passed! the cold stars shone 
in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches above me 
now and then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the 
universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment: I, 
like the archfiend, bore a hell within me; and, finding myself un 
sympathized with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and 
destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the 
ruin. 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


loS 

“ But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure ; I 
became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion, and sank on the 
damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There was none 
among the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist 
me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No: from 
that moment I declared everlasting war against the species, and, 
more than all, against him who had formed me and sent me forth 
to this insupportable misery. 

“The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and knew that it was 
impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly 
I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the 
ensuing hours to reflection on my situation. 

“ The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored me to 
tome degree of tranquillity; and, when I considered what had 
passed at the cottage, I could not help believing that I had been 
too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. 
It was apparent that my conversation had interested the father in 
my behalf, and I was a fool in having exposed my person to the 
horror of his children. I ought to have familiarized the old De 
Lacey to me, and by degrees have discovered myself to the rest of 
his family, when they should have been prepared for my approach. 
But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable; and, after 
much consideration, I resolved to return to the cottage, seek the 
old man, and by my representations win him to my party. 

“These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a 
profound sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be 
visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the preceding 
day was for ever acting before my eyes ; the females were flying, 
and the enraged Felix tearing me from his father’s feet. I awoke 
exhausted; and, finding that it was already night, crept forth from 
my hiding-place, and went in search of food. 

“When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps toward 
the well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there was 
at peace. I crept into my hovel, and remained in silent expectation 
of the accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour past, 
the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not 
appear. I trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful mis- 
fortune. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no mo- 
lion ; I cannot describe the agony of this suspense. 

“Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near the 
cottage, they entered into conversation, using violent gesticula- 
tions; but I did not understand what they said, as they spoke the 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


109 

language of tne country, which differed from that of my protectors. 
Soon after, however, Felix approached with another man: 1 was 
surprised, as I knew that he had not quitted the cottage that morn- 
ing, and waited anxiously to discover, from his discourse, the 
meaning of these unusual appeal ances. 

“‘Do you consider,’ said his companion to him, ‘that you wnl 
be obliged to pay three months’ rent, and to lose the produce of 
your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I 
beg therefore, that you will take some days to consider of your 
determination.’ 

“ ‘ It is utterly useless,’ replied Felix, ‘ we can never again inhabit 
your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing 
to the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and sis- 
ter will never recover their horror. I entreat you not to reason 
with me any more. Take possession of your tenement, and let me 
fly from this place.’ 

“ Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion 
entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and 
then departed. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more. 

“I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state 
of utter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed, and had 
broken the only link that held me to the world. For the first time 
the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not 
strive to control them ; but, allowing myself to be borne away by 
the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death. When I 
thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle 
eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these 
thoughts vanished, and a gush of tears somewhat soothed me. But, 
again, when I reflected that they had spurned and deserted me, an- 
ger returned, a rage of anger; and, unable to injure any thing 
human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As night 
advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage; 
and, after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the gar- 
den, I waited with forced impatience, until the moon had sunk, to 
commence my operations. 

“ As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods, and 
quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens ; the 
blast tore along like a mighty avalanche, and produced a kind of 
insanity in my spirits, that burst all bounds of reason and reflec- 
tion. I lighted the dry branch of a tree, and danced with fury 
around the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the western hori- 
son, the edge of which the moon nearly touched. A part of its orb 


no 


FRANKENSTEIN j OR, 


was at length hid, and I waved my brand; it sunk, and with a loud 
scream I fired the straw and heath and bushes which I had col- 
lected. The wind fanned the fire, and the cottage was quickly en- 
veloped by the flames, which clung to it, and licked it with their 
forked and destroying tongues. 

“As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any 
part of the habitation, I quitted the scene, and sought for refuge in 
he woods. 

“And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my 
steps.? I resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but 
to me, hated and despised, every country must be equally horrible. 
At length the thought of you crossed my mind. I learned from 
your papers that you were my father, my creator; and to whom 
could I apply with more fitness than to him who had given me life? 
Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed upon Safie, geography 
had not been omitted ; I had learned from these the relative situa- 
tions of the different countries of the earth. You had mentioned 
Geneva as the name of your native town ; and towards this place I 
resolved to proceed. 

“ But how was I to direct myself ? I knew that I must travel in a 
south-westerly direction to reach my destination ; but the sun was 
my only guide. I did not know the names of the towns that I was 
to pass through, nor could I ask information from a single human 
being; but I did not despair. From you only could I hope for suc- 
cor, although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. 
Unfeeling, heartless creator! you had endowed me with perceptions 
and passions, and then cast me abroad, an object for the scorn and 
horror of mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and 
redress, and from you I determined to seek that justice which I 
vainly attempted to gain from any other being that wore the human 
form. '' 

“My travels were long, and the sulferings I endured intense. It 
was late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long 
resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the vis- 
age of a human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun 
became heatless ; rain and snow poured around me; mighty livers 
were frozen ; the surface of the earth wtis hard and chill and bare, 
and I found no shelter. Oh, earth I how often did I imprecate sur- 
ges on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had 
fled, and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The 
nearer I approached to your habitation, the more deeply did I feel 
the 6p\rit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow fell, and tha 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


Ill 


waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few incidents now and 
then direr.ted me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I often 
wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed 
me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and mis- 
ery coi 'd not extract their food; but a circumstance that happened 
when I arrived on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had 
recovered its warmth, and the earth again began to look green, 
confirnr.ed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of my 
feelings. 

“ I generally rested during the day, and travelled only when I was 
secured by night from the view of man. One morning, however, 
finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to con- 
tinue my journey after the sun had risen ; the day, which was one 
of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sun- 
shine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness 
and pleasure that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half 
surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be 
borne away by them ; and, forgetting my solitude and deformity, 
dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I 
even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed 
sun, which bestowed such joy upon me. 

“ I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came 
to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into 
which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the 
fresh spring. Here I paused, .not exactly knowing what path to 
pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to con- 
ceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid, when 
a young girl came running towards the spot where I was concealed, 
laughing as if she ran from some one in sport. S ie continued her 
course along the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly hef 
foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my 
hiding-place, and, with extreme labor from the force of the curi ent, 
saved her, and dragged her to shore. She was senseless; ar.d I 
endeavored, by every means in my power, to restore aniniaiion, 
when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic, who 
was probably the person from whom she had playfully fletl On 
seeing me, he darted towards me, and, tearing the girl from n,y 
arms, hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I folio wcil 
speedily, I hardly knew why; but, when the man saw me draw near, 
he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body, and fired. I sunk to 
the ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped intff 
the wood. 


II3 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


“This was, then, the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a 
human being from destruction, and, as a recompense, I now writhed 
under the pair of a wound, which shattered the flesh and bone. 
Tlie feelings ot kindness and gentleness, which I had entertained 
but a few moments before, gave place to hellish rage and gnashing 
of teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance 
to all mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me: my 
pulses paused, and I fainted. 

“ For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavoring 
to cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my 
slioulder, and 1 knew not whether it had remained there or passed 
through; at any rate, I had no means of extracting it. My suffer- 
ings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the injustice 
and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge, 
such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had 
endured. 

“ After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my jour- 
ney. The labors I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the 
bright sun or gentle breezes of spring : all joy was but a mockery, 
which insulted my desolate state, and made me feel more painfully 
that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure. 

“ But my toils now drew near a close; and, two months from this 
time, I reached the environs of Geneva. 

“ It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place 
among the fields that surround it, to meditate in what manner I 
should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger, and 
far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes of evening, or the pros- 
pect of the sun setting behind the stupendous mountains of Jura. 

“ At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflec- 
tion, which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, 
■who came running into the recess I had chosen with all the 
sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea 
seized me, that this little creature was unprejudiced, and had lived 
too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, there- 
fore, I could seize him, and educate him as my companion and 
friend, I should not be so desolate in this peopled earth. 

“ Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed, and 
drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed 
his hands before his eyes and uttered a shrill scream : I drew his 
hand forcibly from his face, and said, ‘ Child, what is the meaning 
of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me.’ 

“ He struggled violently. ‘Let me go,’ he cried; ‘monster! ugly 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


1^3 

wretch I you wish to eat me, and tear me to pieces ; you ar^ *.n 
ogre ; let me go, or I will tell my papa.’ 

“•‘Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come 
with me.’ 

“ ‘ Hideous monster 1 let me go; my papa is a Syndic; — he is M. 
Fiankenstein ; he would punish you. You dare not keep me.’ 

“ ‘ Frankenstein 1 you belong then to my enemy, — to him towaids 
whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.’ 

. “The child still struggled, and loaded me with epithets which 
carried despair to my heart: I grasped his throat to silence him, 
and in a moment he lay dead at my feet. 

“ I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation 
and hellish triumph: clapping my hands, I exclaimed, ‘I, too, can 
create desolation: my enemy is not impregnable; this death will 
carry despair to Him, and a thousand other miseries shall torment 
and destroy him.’ 

“As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on 
his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. 
In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few 
moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep 
lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my rage returned; I re- 
membered that I ;was for ever deprived of the delights that such 
beautiful creatures could bestow; and that she whose resemblance 
I contemplated would, in regarding me, have changed that air of 
divine benignity to one expressive of disgust and affright. 

“Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage? 
I only wonder, that, at that moment, instead of venting my sensa- 
tions in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind, 
and perish in the attempt to destroy them. 

“While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I 
had committed the murder, and was seeking a more seel aded hiding- 
place, when I perceived a young woman passing near me. She 
was young; not, indeed, so beautiful as her whose portrait I held, 
but of an agreeable aspect, and blooming in the loveliness of youth 
and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose smiles are 
bestowed on all but me; she shall not escape : thanks to the lessons 
of Felix, and the sanguinary laws of man, I have learned how to 
work mischief. I approached her unperceived, and placed the por- 
trait securely in one of the folds of her dress. 

“ For some days I haunted the spot where these things had taken 
place; sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the 
world and its miseries for ever. At length I wandered toward these 


“4 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


mountains, and have ranged through their immense recesses, con* 
Burned by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. Wt 
may not part until you have promised to comply v/ith my req.uisi- 
tion. I am alone, and miserable: man will not associate with me; 
but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to 
me. My companion must he of the same species, and lave the 
toame defects. This being you must create.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

T he being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in 
expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and 
unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent 
of his proposition. He continued — 

“ You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the 
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my' being. This 
you alone can do; and I demand it as a right which you must not 
refuse.” 

The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in*me the anger that 
had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cot- 
tagers, and, as he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that 
burned within me. 

“ I do refuse it,” I replied ; “ and no torture shall ever extort a 
consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, 
but you shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create 
another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the 
world? Begone I I have answered you; you may torture me, but I 
will never consent.” 

“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and, instead of 
threatening, I content to reason with you. I am malicious because 
I am miserable; am I not shunned and hated by all mankirid? 
You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and triumph; remem- 
ber that, and tell me why I should pity man more than man pities 
me? You would not, certainly, call it murder, if you could pre- 
cipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the 
work of your own hands. Shall I respect the man, when he con- 
temns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, 
and, instead of injury, I would bestow every benefit upon him, with 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS, 


tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the 
human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet 
mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge 
my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly 
towards you, my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear in- 
extinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruc- 
tion, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the 
hour of your birth.” 

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was 
wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold* 
but presently he calmed himself, and proceeded : — 

“I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for 
you do not refiect that you are the cause of its excess. If an^ 
being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return 
them an hundred and an hundred fold : for that one creature’s 
sake, I would make peace with the whole kind I But I now indulge 
in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I ask of you is 
reasonable and moderate ; I demand a creature of another sex, but 
as hideous as myself : the gratification is small, but it is all that I 
can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be 
monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall 
be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but 
they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel. O 
my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for 
one benefit ! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some exist- 
ing thing; do not deny me my request?” 

I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible con- 
sequences of my consent; but I felt that there was some justice in 
his argument. His tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved 
him to be a creature of fine sensations ; and did I not, as his maker, 
owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to 
bestow? He saw my change of feeling, and continued : — 

“ If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall 
ever see us again : I will go to the vast wilds of South America. 
My food is not that of man , I do not destroy the lamb and the kid, 
to glut my appetite ; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourish- 
ment. My companion will be of the same nature as myself, and 
will be content with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried 
leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man, and will ripen our food. 
The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must 
feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and 
cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compas* 


ii6 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


Bion in your ej'es; let me seize the favorable moment, and persuadt 
you to promise wha,t I so ardently desire.” 

“You propose,” replied I, “to fly from the habitations of man, 
to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your 
only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sym- 
pathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return, and again 
seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation ; your 
evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion 
to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be : cease to 
argue the point, for I cannot consent.” 

“ How inconstant are your feelings 1 But a moment ago you were 
moved by my representations, and why do you again harden your- 
self to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I in- 
habit, and by you that made me, that, with the companion you 
bestow, I will quit the neighborhood of man, and dwell, as it may 
chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have 
fled, for I shall meet with sympathy; my life will flow quietly away, 
and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my maker.” 

His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, 
and sometimes felt a wish to console him; but, when 1 looked upon 
him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart 
sickened, and my feelings were altered to those of horror and ha- 
tred. I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought, that, as I could 
not sympathize with him, I had no right to withhold from him 
the small portion of happiness which was yet in my power to 
bestow. 

“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not already 
shown a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust 
you ? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph 
by affording a wider scope for your revenge?” 

“ How is this? I thought I had moved your compassion, and yet 
you still refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can soften my 
heart, and render me harmless. If I have no ties and no affections, 
hatred and vice must be my portion ; the love of another will de- 
stroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing of whose 
existence every one will be ignorant. My vices are the children of 
a forced solitude that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise 
when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections 
of a sensitive being, and become linked to the chain of existence 
and events, from which I am now excluded.” 

I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the vari- 
ous arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. II7 

of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, 
and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and 
scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him. His power 
and threats were not omitted in my calculations ; a creature w no 
could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from 
pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices, was a being 
possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long 
pause of reflection, I concluded that the justice due both to him and 
my fellow-creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his 
request. Turning to him, therefore, I said ; — 

“I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe 
for ever, and every other place in the neighborhood of man, as soon 
as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you 
in your exile/’ 

“ I swear,” he cried, “ by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, 
that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold 
me again. Depart to your home, and commence your labors : I 
shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety ; and fear not 
but that when you are ready I shall appear.” 

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any 
change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with 
greater speed than the flight ,of an eagle, and quickly lost nim 
among the undulations of the sea of ice. 

His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the 
verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to 
hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encom- 
passed in darkness; but my heurt was heavy and my steps slow. 
The labor of winding among the little paths of the mountains, and 
fixing my feet firmly as I advanced, perplexed me, occupied as I was 
by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. 
Night was far advanced, when I came to the half-way resting-place, 
and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at inter- 
vals, ns the clouds passed from over them ; the dark pines rose be- 
' fore me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground : 
it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange thoughts 
within me. I wept bitterly; and, clasping my hands in agony, I 
exclaimed, “ O stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to 
mock me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let 
me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in 
darkness.” 

These were wild and miserable thoughts ; but I cannot describe 
to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and 


r8 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


how I listened to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull, ugly siroccfl 
on its way to consume me. 

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamonix ; 
but my presence, so haggard and strange, hardly calmed the fear* 
of my family, who had waited the whole night in anxious expecta- 
tion of my return. 

The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention of my 
father in coming had been to divert my mind, and to restore my lost 
tranquillity; but the medicine had been fatal. And, unable to ac- 
count for the excess of misery I appeared to suffer, he hastened to 
return home, hoping the quiet and monotony of a domestic life 
would by degrees alleviate my sufferings, from whatever cause they 
might-spring. 

For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the gen- 
tle affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to draw me 
from the depth of my despair. The promise I had made to the 
demon weighed upon my mind, like Dante's iron cowl on the heads 
of the hellish hypocrites. All my pleasures of earth and sky passed 
before me like a dream, and that thought only had to me the reality 
of life. Can you wonder that sometimes a kind of insanity pos- 
wcsrsed me, or that I saw continually about me a multitude of filthy 
animals, inflicting on me incessant torture, that often extorted 
screams and bitter groans? 

By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I entered 
again into the every-day scene of life, if not with interest, at least 
with some degree of tranquillity. 


— ♦— 

CHAPTER XVII. 

D ay after day, week after week, passed away on my return to ‘ 
Geneva ; and I could not collect the courage to recommence my 
work. I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was 
unable to overcome my repugnance to the task which was enjoined 
me. I found that I could not compose a female without again 
devoting several months to profound study and laborious disquisi- 
tion. I had heard of some discoveries having been made by an 
English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material to my 
success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father’s corjseni 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


II9 

to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of 
delay, and could not resolve to interrupt my returning tranquillity 
My health, which had hitherto declined, was now much restored; 
and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my unhappy 
promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this change witn 
pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the best method of 
eradicating the remains of my melancholy, which every now and 
then would return by fits, and with a devouring blackness overcast 
the approaching sunshine. At these moments I took refuge in the 
most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in a 
little boat, watching the clouds, and listening to the rippling of the 
waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom 
failed to restore me to some degree of composure; and, on m^ 
return, I met the salutations of my friends with a readier sm’.e and 
a more cheerful heart. 

It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father, 
calling me aside, thus addressed me: — 

“ I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resuiped 
your former pleasures, and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet 
you are still unhappy, and still avoid our society. For some time 
I was lost in conjecture as to the cause of this, but yesterday an 
idea struck me; and, if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. 
Reserve on such a point would be not only useless, but draw down 
treble misery on us all.” 

I trembled violently at this exordium, and my father continued, — 

“ I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your 
marriage with your cousin as the tie of our domestic comfort, and 
the stay of my declining years. You were attached to each other 
from your earliest infancy ; you studied together, and appeared, in 
dispositions and tastes, entirely suited to one another. But so 
Mind is the experience of man, that what I conceived to be the best 
assistants to my plan may have entirely destroyed it. You, per- 
haps, regard her as your sister, without any wish that she might 
become your wife. Na^-^, you may have met with another whom 
you may love; and, considering j'ourself as bound in honor to your 
cousin, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery whiqh you 
appear to feel.” 

“My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly 
and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth 
does, my warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes 
and prospects are entirely bound up in the expectation of our 

union.” 


120 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


“The expression of your seniimcnts on this subject, my deal 
Victor, gives rne more pleasure than I have for some time expe- 
rienced. If you feel this, we shall assuredly be happy, however 
present events may cast a gloom over us. But it is this gloom, 
which appears to have taken so strong a hold of your mind, that I 
wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an 
immediate solemnization of the marriage. We have been unfor- 
tunate, and recent events have drawn us from that every-day tian- 
quillity befitting my years and infirmities. You are younger; yet I 
do not suppose, possessed, as you are, of a competent fortune, that 
an early marriage would at all interfere with any future plans of 
honor and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose, 
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on 
your part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my 
words with candor, and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence 
and sincerity." 

I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some time 
incapable of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a 
multitude of thoughts, and endeavored to arrive at some conclusion. 
Alas I to me the idea of an immediate union with my cousin was 
one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise, 
which I had not yet fulfilled, and dared not break; or, if I did, 
what manifold miseries might not impend over me and my devoted 
family I Could I enter into a festival with this deadly weight yet 
hanging round my neck, and bowing me to the ground? I must 
perform my engagement, and let the monster depart with his mate, 
before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of a union from which 
I expected peace. 

I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either 
journeying to England, or entering into a long correspondence 
with those philosophers of that country, whose knowledge and 
discoveries were of indispensable use to me in my present under- 
taking. The latter method of obtaining the desired intelligence 
was dilatory and unsatisfactory: besides, any variation was agree- 
able to me, and I was delighted with the idea of spending a year or 
two in change of scene and variety of occupation, in absence from 
my family; during which period some event might happen which 
uould restore me to them in peace and happiness; my promise 
might be fulfilled, and the monster have departed; or some acci 
dent might occur to destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for 
ever. 

These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed • 


THK MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


121 


wish to visit England; but, concealing the true reasons of thii 
request, I clothed my desires under the guise of wishing to travel 
and see the world before 1 sat down for life within the walls of mjr 
native town. 

I urged my entreaty with earnestness, and my father w’as easily 
induced to comply; for a more indulgent and less dictatorial parent, 
did not exist upon earth. Our plan was soon arranged. I should 
travel to Strasburg, where Clerval would join me. Some shoi i 
time would be |pent in the towns of Holland, and our principal 
stay would be in England. We should return by France; and it 
was agreed that the tour should occupy the space of two years. 

My father pleased himself with the reflection, that my union with 
Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return to Geneva. 
“These two years,” said he, “will pass swiftly, and it will be the 
last delay that will oppose itself to your happiness. And, indeed, 
I earnestly desire that period to arrive, when we shall all be united, 
and neitlter hopes nor fears arise to disturb our domestic calm.” 

“I am content,” I replied, “with your arrangement. By that 
time we shall both have become wiser, and I hope happier, than we 
at present are.” I sighed ; but my father kindly forbore to question 
me further concerning the cause of my dejection. He hoped that 
new scenes, and the amusement of travelling, would restore my 
tranquillity. 

I now made arrangements for my journey; but one feeling 
haunted me, which filled me with fear and agitation. During my 
absence I should leave my friends unconscious of the existence of 
their enemy, and unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he 
might be by my departure. But he had promised to follow me 
wherever I might go; and would he not accompany me to Eng- 
land? This imagination was dreadful in itself, but soothing, inas- 
much as it supposed the safety of my friends. I was agonized with 
the idea of the possibility that the reverse of this might happen. 
But through the whole period during which I was the slave of my 
creature, I allowed myStelf to be governed by the impulses of the 
moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the 
fiend would follow me, and exempt my family from the danger of 
Kis machinations. 

It was in the latter end of August that I departed, to pass two 
years of exile. Elizabeth approved of the reasons of m3' departure, 
and only regretted that she had not the same opport unities of en- 
larging her experience, and cultivating her understanding. She 
wept, however, as she bade me farewell, and entreated me to return 


122 


FRANKENSTEIN , OR, 


liappy and tranquil. “We all,” said she, “depend upon you; and 
if you are miserable, what must be our feelings?” 

I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey nie away, 
hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless of what w'as 
j)assing around. 1 remembered only, and it was with a bitter an- 
guish that 1 reflected on it, to order that my chemical instruments 
should be packed to go with me; for I resolved to fulfil my promise 
while abroad, and return, if possible, a free man. Filled with 
dreary imaginations, I passed through many beauti^l and majestic 
scenes; but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. 1 could only 
think of the bourn of my travels, and the work which was to oc- 
cupy me while they endured. 

After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I trav- 
ersed many leagues, I arrived at Strasburg, where I waited two 
days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the contrast be- 
tween us ! fie was alive to every new scene ; joyful when he saw 
the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it 
rise, and recommence a new day. He pointed out to me the shift- 
ing colors of the landscape, and the appearances of the sky. “This 
is what it is to live,” he cried; “ now I enjoy existence I But you, 
my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you desponding and sorrow- 
ful?” In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts, and neither 
saw the descent of the evening star, nor the golden sunrise reflected 
in the Rhine. And you, my friend, would be far more amused with 
the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an eye of 
feeling and delight, than to listen to my reflections. I, a miserable 
wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment. 

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburg 
to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. Dur- 
ing this voyage, we passed by many willowy islands, and saw sev- 
eral beautiful towns. We staid a day at Manheim, and, on the fifth 
from our departure from Strasburg, arrived at Mayence. The 
course of the Rhine below the Mayence becomes much more pictur- 
esque. The river descends rapidly, and winds between hills, not 
high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many ruined cas- 
tles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black woods, 
high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a* 
singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills, 
ruined castles, overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark 
Rhine rushing beneath; and, or. the sudden turn of a promontory, 
flourishing vineyards, with green sloping banks, and a meandering 
river, and populous towns, occupy the scene. 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 23 

We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song of the 
laborers, as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, 
and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was 
pleased. I lay at the bottom of the boat, and, as I gazed on the 
cloudless blue sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I 
had long been a stranger. And if these were my sensations, who 
can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had been transported 
to Fairy-land, and enjoyed a happiness -seldom tasted by man. ‘ I 
have seen,” he said, “ the most beautiful scenes of my own countrv; 
1 have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy moun- 
tains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black and 
impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful 
appearance, were it not for the most verdant islands that relieve the 
eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a 
tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water, and gave you 
an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean, and 
the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest 
and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche, and where 
their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the 
nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the 
Pays de Vaud : but this country, Victor, pleases me more than all 
those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic 
and strange; but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river, 
that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which over- 
hangs yon precipice; and also that on the island, almost concealed 
among the foliage of those lovely trees ; and now that group of 
laborers, coming from among their vines ; and that village, half-hid 
in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that inhabits 
and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man, than 
those who pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the 
mountains of our own country.” 

Clerval ! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record your 
words, and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently 
deserving. He was a being formed in the “ very poetry of nature.”* 
His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensi- 
bility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and 
his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the 
worldly minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But 
even human sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager 
mind. The scenery of external nature, which others regard only 
VJ^ith admiration, he loved with ardor : — 


• Leigh Hunt’s “ Rimini.’ 


134 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


“ The sounding cataract 
Haunted him like a passion ; the tall rock, 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 

ITieir colors and their forms, were then to him 
An appetite ; a feeling, and a love, 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 

By thought supplied, or any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye.” • 

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being 
/ost for ever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations, 
fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world whose existence 
depended on the life of its creator; has this mind perished? Does 
it now only exist in my memory? No, it is not thus ; your form, so 
divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your 
spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend. 

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineflfectual words are but a 
slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe 
my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance 
creates. I will proceed with my tale. 

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we 
resolved to post the remainder of our way; for the wind was con- 
trary, and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. 

Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery; 
but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by 
sea to England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of 
December, that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks 
of the Thames presented a new scene; they were flat, but fertile, 
and almost every town was marked by the remembrance of some 
story. We saw Tilbury Fort, and remembered the Spanish armada; 
Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich, places which I had heard of 
even in ray country. 

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’i 
towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history. 


• Wordsworth's “Tintem Abbey 


TMK MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


135 


‘chapter XVIII. 

T ONDON was our present point of rest; we determined to re» 
main several months in this wonderful and celebrated citj 
Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who 
Nourished at this time; but this was with me a secondary object : 
I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the infor- 
ii.ation necessary for the completion of my promise, and quickly 
availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with 
me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers. 

If this- journey had taken place during my days of study and hap- 
piness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a 
blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these people 
for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject 
in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irk- 
some to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of 
heaven and earth ; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus 
cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joy- 
ous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmounta- 
ble barrier placed between me and my fellow-men ; this barrier was 
sealed with the blood of William and Justine; and to reflect on the 
events connected with those names, filled my soul with anguish. 

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisi- 
tive, and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The differ- 
ence of manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible 
source of instruction and amusement. He was for ever busy; and 
the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected 
mien. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might 
not debar him from the pleasures natural to one who was entering 
on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bittei reflection. 

1 often refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement, 
that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the 
materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like 
the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head. 
Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and 
every word that I spoke in allusion to it, caused my lips to quiver, 
and my heart to palpitate. 

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from 
a person in Scotland, who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. 
He mentioned the beauties of his native country, and asked us if 


126 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


those weie not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong out 
journev as far north as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly 
desired to accept this invitation ; and I, although I abhorred society, 
wished to view again the mountains and streams, and all the 
wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwellings 
places. 

We had arrived in England at the beginning of January, and it 
was now February. We accordingly determined to commence our 
journey towards the north at the expiration of another month. In 
this expedition we did not intend to follow the great road to Edin- 
burgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland 
lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour about the 
end of July. I packed my chemical instruments, and the materials 
I had collected, resolving to finish my labors in some obscure nook 
in the northern highlands of Scotland. 

We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a few 
days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new 
scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, 
and the herds of stately deer, were all novelties to us. 

From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, 
our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events that had 
been transacted there more than a century and a half before. It 
was here that Charles I. had collected his forces. This city had 
remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his 
cause to join the standard of parliament and liberty. The memory 
of that unfortunate king, and his companions, the amiable Falk- 
land, the insolent Gower, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar 
interest to every part of the city, which they might be supposed to 
have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, 
and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not 
found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city had 
yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The 
colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost mag- 
nificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows 
of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, 
which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers and spires and 
domes imbosomed among aged trees. 

I enjoyed this scene ; and yet my enjoyment was imbittered both 
by the memory of the past, and the anticipation of the future. 1 
was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days, dis- 
content never visited my mind ; and if I was ever overcome by 
eunut\ the sight of what is beautiful in nature, gr the study of what 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


127 


Is excellent and sublime in the productions of man, could always 
interest my heart, and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I 
am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul: and I felt then 
that I should survive to exhibit, what 1 shall soon cease to be, — a 
miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and 
abhorrent to. myself. 

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its 
i^nvircns, and endeavoring to identify every spot which might 
relate to the most animating epoch of English, history. Oui little 
voyages of discovery were^often prolonged by the successive objects 
that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious 
Hampden, and the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment 
my soul was elevated from its debasing and miserable fears to con- 
template the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these 
sights were the monuments and the remembrances. For an instant 
I dared to shake off my chains, and look around me with a free 
and lofty spirit; but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank 
again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self. 

We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock, which was 
our next place of rest. The country in the neighborhood of this 
village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; 
but every thing is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the 
crown of distant white Alps, which always attend on the piny 
mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave, 
and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are 
disposed of in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and 
Chamonix. The latter name made me tremble, when pronounced 
by Henry; and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrible 
scene was thus associated. 

From Derby still journeying northward, we passed two months 
in Cumberland and Westmoreland. I could now almost fancy 
myself among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow 
which yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the 
lakes, and the dashing of ‘the rocky streams, were all familiar and 
dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who 
almosc contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delighi of Cler- 
val was proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded in 
the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature 
greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined him- 
self to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. “I 
could pass my life here,” said he to me; “and among these moun« 
tains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine.” 


12S 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes much pain 
amid its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and 
wnen he begins to sink into repose, he .finds himself obliged to 
quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which 
again engages his attention, and wliich also he forsakes for other 
novelties. 

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland, and conceived an affection for some of the in- 
habitants, when the period of our appointment with our Scotcli 
friend approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own 
part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some 
time, and I feared the eflfects of the demon’s disappointment. He 
might remain in Switzerland, and wreak hi$ vengeance on my 
relatives. This idea pursued me, and tormented me at e\ery mo- 
ment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. 

I waited for my letters with feverish impatience ; if they were 
delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears ; and 
when they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my 
father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I 
thought that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my remiss- 
ness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts pos- 
sessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him 
as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. 

I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of 
which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn a hor- 
rible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime. 

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind ; and yet that * 
city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did 
not like it so well as Oxford; for the antiquity of the latter city was 
more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new 
town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle, and its environs, the most 
delightful in the world, Arthur’s Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the 
Pentland Hills, compensated him for the change, and filled him with 
cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the 
termination of my journey. 

We left Edinburgh in a week, passed through Coupar, St. An- 
drews, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friends 
expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with stran- 
gers, or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humor ex- 
pected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished 
to make the tour of Scotland alone. “Do you,” said I, “cnJojF 
yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month 


THE MODERN rilor.ix:. .. VJVUS. 


129 


or two, but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you : leave 
me to peace and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I 
hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own 
temper.” 

Henry wished to dissuade me; bul, seeing me bent on this plan, 
ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write- often. “I had 
rather be with you,” he said, in your solitary rambles, than with 
these Scotch people, whom I do not know: hasten, then, my dear 
friend, to return, that 1 may again feel myself somewhat at home, 
which I cannot do in your absence.” 

Having parted from my friend, 1 determined to visit some remote 
spot of Scotland, and finish my work, in solitude. I did not doubt 
but that the monster followed me, and would discover himself to 
me when I should have finished, that he might receive his com- 
panion. 

With this resolution, I traversed the northern highlands, and fixed 
on one of the remotest Orkneys as the scene of my labors. It was 
a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose 
high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil 
was barren, scarcely aflbrding pasture for a few miserable cows, and 
oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose 
gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miseralileTare. Vege- 
tables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even 
fresh water, were to be procured from the mainland, which was 
about five miles distant. 

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one 
of these was vacant when I arrived. This 1 hired. It contained 
but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most 
miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplas- 
tered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, 
bought some furniture, and took possession ; an incident which 
would, doubtless, have occasioned some surprise, had not all the 
senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. 
As it was, 1 lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly th:inked lot 
the pittance of food and clothes which I gave; so much does suffer- 
ing blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. 

In this retreat I deyoted the morning to labor; but in the evening, 
when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the 
sea, to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It 
was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzer- 
land; it was far different from this desolate and appalling land- 
scape* Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered 

Q 


130 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR 


thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; 
and, when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play 
a lively infant, when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean. 

In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived; 
but, as I proceeded in my labor, it became every day more horrible 
and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to 
enter my laboratory for several days; and at other times I toiled 
day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a 
I ithy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, 
a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my 
employment; my mind was intently fixed on the sequel of my labor, 
and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now 
I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work 
of my hands. 

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, im- 
mersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my 
attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits 
became unequal ; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I 
feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed 
on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter the 
object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from 
the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when alone he should come to 
claim his companion. 

In the mean time I worked on. and tny labor wa.s already consid- 
erably advanced. I looked tow.'uds its completion with a tremulous 
and eager hope, which 1 dared not trust myself to question, but 
which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil, that made 
my heart sicken in my bosom. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

I SAT one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the 
moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for 
my employment, and I remained idle in a pause of consideration 
of whether I should leave my labor for the night, or hasten its con- 
clusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of re- 
flection occurred to me, which led me to consider the effects of what 
I was now doing. Three years before, I was er gaged in the same 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


I3I 

manner, and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had 
desolated my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. 
I was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was 
alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malig- 
nant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and 
wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighborhood of man, 
and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in ali 
probabilitj' was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might 
refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They 
might even ’.ate each other; the creature who already lived, loathed 
his own deformity; and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence 
for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also 
might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man ; she 
might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh 
provocation of being deserted by one of his own species. 

Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the 
new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which 
the demon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be 
propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of 
the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had 
I a right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting 
generations? I had before been moved by the sophisms of the be- 
ing I had created ; I had been struck senseless by his fiendish 
threats ; but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise 
burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse 
me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own 
peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human 
race. 

I trembled, and my heart failed within me ; when, on looking up, 
I saw by the light of the moon, the demon at the casement. A 
ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat ful- 
filling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes: he had followed 
me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, 
or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to 
mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise. 

As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent 
of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness 
on my promise of creating another like to him, and, trembling with 
passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The 
wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he 
depended for happiness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and 
revenge, withdrew. 


132 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in raf 
own heart never to resume mj labors; and then, with trembling 
steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone ; none were near 
me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the sickening op- 
pression of the most terribk reveries. 

Several hours passed, and I remained near my window, gazing on 
tlie sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and 
all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing- 
vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the gentle 
breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fishermen called to one 
another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of its 
extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly arrested by the 
paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my 
house. 

In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if 
some one endeavored to open it softly. 1 trembled from head to 
foot : I felt a presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one 
of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I 
was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, — so often felt in 
frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavor to fly from an impend- 
ing danger, — and was rooted to the spot. 

Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage ; the 
door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting 
the door, he approached me, and said, in a smothered voice, — 

“You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it you 
intend.? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil 
and misery ; I left Switzerland with you ; I crept along the shores 
of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its 
hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and 
among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue 
and cold and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?” 

“Begone! I do break my promise : never will I create another 
like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness.” 

“ Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself 
unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; 
you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that 
the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I 
am your master ; obey 1 ” 

“ The hour of my weakness is past, and the period of your power 
is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wicked- 
ness; but they confirm me in a resolution of not creating you a 
companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 33 

a di.mon, whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I 
am firm, and jour words will only exasperate my rage.” 

The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his 
teeth in the impotence of anger. “ Shall each man,” cried he, “ find 
a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? 
I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation 
and scorn. Man, j^ou may hate; but, beware! your hours will pass 
in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish 
from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I 
grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my 
other passions ; but revenge remains, — revenge, henceforth dearer 
than light or food! I may die; but first you, mj’^ tyrant and tor- 
mentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; 
for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with the 
wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you 
shall repent of the injuries you inflict.” 

“Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of 
malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward 
to bend beneath words. Leave me : I am inexorable.” 

“It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your 
wedding-night.” 

I started forward, and exclaimed, “Villain! before you sign my 
death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.” 

I would have seized him ; but he eluded me, and quitted the house 
with precipitation : in a few moments I saw him in his boat, which 
shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost 
amid the waves. 

All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned 
with rage to pursue the murdei'er of my peace, and precipitate him 
into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and per- 
turbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to 
torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and closed 
with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and 
he had directed his course toward the mainland. I shuddered to 
think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate re- 
venge. And then I thought again of his words, — “ / wf// be 'with 
you on your -wedding-night'^ That, then, was the period for the fuh 
filment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once sat- 
isfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to 
fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, — of her team 
and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously 
snatched from her, — tears, the first ’ had shed for many months^ 


134 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy 
without a bitter struggle. 

The night pf.ssed away, and the sun rose from the ocean ; my 
feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the vio- 
lence of rage sinks into the depth of despair. I left the house, the 
horrid scene of the last night’s contention, and walked on the beach 
of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier be- 
tween me and my fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should 
proA-^e the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life 
on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any 
sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to 
Bee those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a demon whom 
I had myself created. 

I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all 
it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, 
and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was OA-^er- 
powered by a deep sleep, I had been awake the whole of the pre- 
ceding night : my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by 
watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sunk re- 
freshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a 
race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what 
had passed with greater composure ; yet still the words of the fiend 
rung in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream, yet 
distinct aYid oppressive as a reality. 

The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying 
my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when 
I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought 
me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Cler- 
val, entreating me to join him. He said that nearly a year had 
elapsed since we had quitted Switzerland, and France was yet un- 
visited, He entreated me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and 
meet him at Perth, in a week from that time, when we might 
arrange the plan of our future proceedings. This letter in a degree 
recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expira- 
tion of two days. 

Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which 1 
shuddered to reflect : I must pack my chemical instruments ; and 
for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene 
of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of 
which was sickening to me. The next morning, at daybreak, 
summoned sufficient courage, and unlocked the door of my labora- 
tory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had do- 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


135 


itroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had 
mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect 
myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I con- 
veyed the instruments out of the room; but I reflected that 1 ought 
not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion 
of the peasants, and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a 
great quantity of stones, and, laying them up, determined to throw 
them into the sea that very night; and in the mean time I sat 
upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical 
apparatus. 

Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had 
taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the 
demon. I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, 
as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but 
I now feTt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes, and that 
I, for the first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewdng my labors 
did not for one instant occur to me ; the threat d had heard weighed 
on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine 
could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to create 
another like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest 
and most atrocious selfishness; and I banished from* my mind 
every thought that could lead to a different conclusion. 

Between two and three in the morning, the moon rose; and I 
then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four 
miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary: a few 
boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. 
I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime, and 
avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my fellow- 
creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, 
was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of 
the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea; I listened 
to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and' then sailed away from the 
spot. The sky became clouded; but the air was pure, although 
chilled by the north-east breeze that was then rising. But it re- 
freshed me, and filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I 
resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and, fixing the rudder 
in a direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. 
Clouds hid the moon, every thing was obscure, and I heard only 
the sound of the boat as its keel cut through the waves ; the mur- 
mur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. 

I do not know how lopg I remained in this situation, but when I 
awoke I found that the sun had already mounted considerably. 


136 


FRANKiiNSTEIN ; OR, 


The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened tne safety 
of my little skiff. I found that the wind was north-east, and must 
have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. 
I endeavored to change my course, but quickly found that if I again 
made the attempt the boat would be instantly filled with water. 
Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. 
I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass 
with me, and was so little acquainted with the geography of tliis 
part of the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might 
be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of starva- 
tion, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable wafers that roared 
and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours, and 
felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other suffer- 
ings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that 
flew before the wind only to be replaced by others : I looked upon 
the sea — it was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your 
task is already fulfilled ! ” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, 
and of Clerval ; and sunk into a reverie, so despairing and fright- 
ful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before 
me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it. 

Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined 
towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, 
and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a 
heavy swell ; I felt sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder, when 
suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south. 

Although spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I 
endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like 
a flood of warm joy to m3' heart, and tears gushed from m3' eyes. 

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging 
love we have of life, even in the excess of misery! I constructed 
another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my courss 
towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance ; but, as 1 
approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces of cultivation 
I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself suddenly trans 
ported back to the neighborhood of civilized man. I eagerly traced 
the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple which I at length 
saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state 
of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town as 
a place where I could most easily procure nourishment. For- 
tunately I had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I 
perceived a small neat town and a good harbor, which I entered, 
my heart bounding with joy at my most unexpected escape. As I 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


137 


was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several 
people crowded towards the spot. They seemed very much sur- 
prised at my appearance ; but, instead of offering me any assist- 
ance, whispered together with gestures that at any other time 
might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it 
was, I merely remarked that they spoke English; and I therefore 
addressed them in that language: “My good friends,” said I, “will 
you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town, and inform me 
where I am ? ” 

“You will know that soon enough,” replied a man with a gruff 
voice. “ Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much 
to your taste ; but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I 
promise you.” 

I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from 
a stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning 
and angry countenances of his companions. “Why do you answer 
me so roughly.?” I replied: “surely it is not the custom of Eng- 
lishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably.” 

“ I do not know,” said the man, “ what the custom of the English 
may be; but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains.” 

While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd 
rapidly increased. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity 
and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I 
inquired the way to the inn ; but no one replied. I then moved 
forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they 
followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking man, approach- 
ing, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “ Come, sir, you must 
follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s to give an account of yourself.” 

“Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself ? 
Is not this a free country ?” • 

“Aye, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magis- 
trate, and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman 
who was found murdered here last night.” 

This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I 
was innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I followed 
my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in 
the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger; but, being 
surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, 
that n: physical debility might be construed into apprehension or 
conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a 
few moments to overwhelm me, and extinguish ir. horror and 
despair all fear of ignominy ai I death. 


•38 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


I must pause here ; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the 
memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper 
detail, to my recollection. 


4 - 


CHAPTER XX. 

T WAS soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an 
old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked 
upon me, however, with some degree of severity, and then, turning 
towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on 
this occasion. 

About half a dozen men came forward; and one being selected 
by the magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the 
night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, 
about ten o’clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, 
and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as 
the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at the harbor, but, 
as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He 
walked on first, carrying a part of the fisliing tackle, and his com- 
oanions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding 
along the sands, he struck his foot against something, and fell all 
his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him; 
and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen on 
‘.he body of a man who was to all appearance dead. 

Their first supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person 
who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; 
but, upon examination, they found that the clothes were not wet, 
and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried 
it- to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and endeavored, 
but in vain, to restore it to life. He appeared to be a handsome 
young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently 
oeen strangled, for there was no sign of any violence, except the 
black mark of fingers on his neck. 

The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, 
but wlien the mark of the fingers vras mentioned, I remembered the 
murder of my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated ; my 
limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me 
to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


139 


& keen eye, and of course drew an unfavorable augury from my 
manner. 

The son confirmed the father’s account: but when Daniel Nugent 
was called, he swore positively, that, just before the fall. of his com- 
panion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance 
from the shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of i. few 
stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. 

A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was stand- 
ing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fisher- 
men, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, 
when she saw a boat, with only one man in it, push off from that 
part of the.shore where the corpse was afterwards found. 

Another woman confirmed the account of the fisherman having 
brought the body into her house ; it was not cold. They put it into 
a bed, and rubbed it; and Daniel went to the town for an apoth- 
ecary, but life was quite gone. 

Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and 
they agreed, that, with the strong north wind that had arisen dur- 
ing the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many 
hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from 
which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that 
I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely, that, 
as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the 

harbor, ignorant of the distance of the town of from the place 

where I had deposited the corpse. 

Mr. Kirvvin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be 
taken into the room where the bddy lay for interment, that it might 
be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. 

This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had 
exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was 
accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other per- 
sons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange 
coincidences thjit had taken place during this eventful night; but, 
knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the 
island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, 
I was*perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. 

I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the 
coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? 1 feel 
yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment 
without shuddering and agony, that faintly reminds me of the 
anguish of the recognition. The trial, the presence of the magis- 
trate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I 


140 


Frankenstein; or, 


saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. 4 
gasped for breath ; and, throwing m^’-self on the body, I exclaimed, 
“ Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest 
Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await 
their destiny: but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor,” 

The human frame could no longer support tae agonizing suffer- 
ing that I endured, and I was carried out of the rcom in strong 
convulsions. 

A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of 
death;" my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called 
myself murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Some- 
times I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of 
the fiend by whom I was tormented ; and, at others, I felt the 
fingers of the monster grasping my neck, and I screamed aloud 
with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native lan- 
guage, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter 
cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. 

Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, 
why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches 
away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating 
parents : how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day 
in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms 
and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that I 
could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the 
wheel, continually renewed the torture? 

But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as 
awaking from a dream in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, 
surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, b'olts, and all the miserable 
apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I 
thus awoke to understanding: I had forgotten the particulars of 
what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune had 
suddenly overwhelm.ed me; but when I looked around, and saw the 
barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I was, 
all flashed across my memorj', and I groaned bitterly. 

This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair 
beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnJceys, 
and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often 
characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, 
like those of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in 
sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she 
addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had 
heard during my sufferings : — 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


I4I 


“Are you better now, sir?” said she. 

I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “1 believe I 
am ; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that 
I am still alive to feel this misery and horror.” 

“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about 
the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if 
you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you; but you will he 
hung when the next sessions come on. However, that’s none of niy 
business: I am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my 
duty with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the 
same.” 

I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeel- 
ing a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death ; but 
I felt languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The 
whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream ; I sometimes 
doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my 
mind with the force of reality. 

As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew 
feverish ; a dai*kness pressed around me ; no one was near me who 
soothed me with the gentle voice of love ; no dear hand supported 
me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old 
woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in 
the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the 
visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a mu-- 
derer but the hangman who would gain his fee? 

These were my first reflections ; but I soon learned that Mr. Kir 
win had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room 
in the prison to be prepared for me ;^(wretched indeed was the best!) 
and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, 
he seldom came to see me; for, although he ardently desired to re- 
lieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be 
present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He 
came, therefore, sometimes to see that I was not neglected ; but his 
visits were short, and at long intervals. 

One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, 
my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those of death : I was 
overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek 
death than remain miserably pent up only to be let loose in a world 
replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I 
should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, 
less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, 
when the door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin en- 


143 


Frankenstein; or, 


tered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion ; he 
drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French, — 

“I fear that this place is very shocking to you ; can I do any thing 
to make you more comfortable?” 

“I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me : on the 
whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.” 

I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little re- 
lief lo one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But 
you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, 
evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal 
charge.” 

“That is my least concern : I am, by a course of strange events, 
become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as 
I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?” 

“Nothing, indeed, could be more unfortunate and agonizing thar 
the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, 
by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospi- 
tality; seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first 
sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, 
murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it were, bjr 
some fiend across your path.” 

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured 
on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise 
at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose 
some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kir- 
win hastened to say, — 

“ It was not until a day or two after your illness, tb-at I thought 
of examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which 
I could send to your relations an account 'of your misfortune and 
illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I dis- 
covered from its commencement to be from your father. 1 instantly 
wrote to Geneva : nearly two months have elapsed since the depart- 
ure of my letter. But you are ill ; even now you tremble : you are 
unfit for agitation of any kind.” 

“This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible 
event : tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose 
murder I am now to lament.” 

“Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness, 
“and some one, a friend, is come to visit you.” 

I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, 
but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to 
mock at my misery, and taur.t me with the death of Clerval, as a 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


143 


new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my 
hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony, — 

“Oh, take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake, do not 
let him enter 1 ” 

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could 
not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, 
and said, in rather a severe tone, — 

“1 shoi'ld ha^e thought, young man, that the presence of your 
fathet would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent 
repugnance.” 

“My father!” cried 1, while every feature and every muscle was 
relaxed from anguish to pleasure. “ Is my father, indeed, come? 
How kind, how very kindl But where is he; why does he not has- 
ten to me.^” 

My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; per- 
haps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary 
return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former benevo- 
lence. He rose and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a mo- 
ment my father entered it. 

Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure 
than the arrival of my father. 1 stretched out my hand to him, 
and cried, — 

“ Are you then safe — and Elizabeth — and Ernest?” 

My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and en- 
deavored, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, 
to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison can- 
not be the abode of cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you 
inhabit, my son!” said he, looking mournfully at the barred win- 
dows and wretched appearance of the room. “You travelled to 
seek happiness, but a fatality se6ms to pursue you. And poor 
Clerval ” " 

The name of my unfortunate and ijiurdered friend was an agita- 
tion too great to be endured in my weak state ; I shed tears. 

“Alas! yes, my father,” replied I; “some destiny of the most, 
horrid kind hangs over me, and I me^st live to fulfil it, or surely I 
should have died on the coffin of Henry.” 

We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the 
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary 
that could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted 
that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. 
But the appearance of my fatner was to me like that of my good 
angel, and I gradually recovered my.health. 


144 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


As iny sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black 
melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval 
was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the 
agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends 
dread a dangerous relapse. Alas I why did they preserv'e so miser- 
able and detested a life.? It was surely that I might fulfil my des- 
tiny, wliich is now drawing to a close. ‘ Soon, oh 1 very soon, will 
death extinguish these throbbings, and relieve me from the mighty 
weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the 
award of justice, I shall sink to rest. Then the appearance of death 
was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; 
and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for 
some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in 
its ruins. 

The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three 
months in prison; and, although I was still weak, and in continual 
danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles 
to the county-town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged 
himself with every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my 
defence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a 
criminal, as the case was not brought before the court that decides 
on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its bei^'g 
proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my 
friend was found, and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated 
from prison. 

My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations 
of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh 
atmosphere, and allowed to return to my native country. I did not 
particij)ate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a 
palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; 
and although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of 
heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, 
penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared 
a})on me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, 
languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and 
the long black lashes that fringed them ; sometimes it was the 
watery clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in iny 
chamber of Ingolstadt. 

My father tried to awakeii in me the feelings of affection. He 
talked of Geneva, — which I should soon visit, — of Elizabeth and 
Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me. Some- 
times, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; and thought, with melan« 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS, 


145 


choly delight, of my beloved cousin ; or longed, with a devouring 
tnaladie du ^ays^ to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, 
that had been so dear to me in early childhood : but my general 
state of feeling was a torpor, in which a prison was as welcome a 
residence as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were sel- 
dom interrupted, but by paroxj'sms of anguish and despair. At 
moments I often endeavored to put an end to the existence \ 
loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to re 
strain me from committing some dreadful act of violence. 

I remember, as 1 quitted the prison, I heard one of the men say, 
“ He may be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a bad 
conscience.”' These words struck me. A bad conscience! yes, 
surely I had one. William, Justine, and Clerval had died through 
my infernal machinations; “And whose death,” cried I, “is to 
finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not remain in this wretched 
country; take me where I may forget myself, my existence, and all 
the world.” 

My father easily acceded to my desire ; and, after having taken 
leave of Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was 
relieved from a heavy weight, when the packet sailed with a fair 
wind from Ireland, and I had quitted for ever the country which had 
been to me the scene of so much misery. 

It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin ; and I lay on the 
deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. 
I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse 
beat with a feverish joy, when I reflected I should soon see Geneva. 
The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the 
vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested 
shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too 
forcibly that I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my 
friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the 
monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life ; 
in_y quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the 
death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remem- 
bered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the 
creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night 
during which he first lived. I was unable to Dursue the tiain 
of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upor me, and I wept 
bitterly. 

Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custona 
of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by 
means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest neces- 

10 


146 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


sarj fbr the preservation of life. Oppressed the recollection of 
my various misfortunes, I now took a double dose, and soon slept 
profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and 
misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. 
Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt 
the fiend’s grasp on my neck, and could not free myself from it; 
groans and cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching 
over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me, and pointed to the 
port of Holyhead, which we were now entering. 


CHAPTER XXL 


E had resolved not to go to London, but to cross the country 



* ^ to Portsmouth, and thence embark for Havre. I preferred 
this plan, principally because I dreaded again to see those places in 
which I had enjoyed a few moments of tranquillity with my beloved 
Clerval. I thought with horror of seeing again those persons 
whom we had been accustomed to visit together, and who might 
make inquiries concerning an event, the very remembrance of 
which made me again feel the pang I endured when 1 gazed on his 
lifeless form in the inn at . 

As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded to the 
again seeing me restored to health and peace of mind. His tender- 
ness and attentions w'ere unremitting; my grief and gloom were 
obstinate, but he would not despair. Sometimes he thought that I 
felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of 
murder, and he endeavored to prove to me the futility of pride. 

“ Alas ! my father,” said I, “ how little do you know me ! Human 
beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded, if 
such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was 
as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; 
and I am the cause of this: I murdered her. William, Justine, and 
Henry, — they all died by my hands.” 

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make 
the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes 
seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to con- 
sider it as caused by delirium, and that, during my illness, some 
idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the re- 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


HI 

me.nbrance of AJvhich I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided 
explanation, and maintained a continual silence concerning the 
; wretch I had created. I had a feeling that I should be supposed 
mad, and this for ever chained my tongue, when I would have given 
' the wliole world to have confided the fatal secret. 

Upon this occasion, my father said, with an expression of un- 
bounded wonder, “What do you mean, Victor? are you mad? My 
i dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion.” 

’ “ I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “ the sun and the heavens, 

wlio have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my tr ith. ll 
am ihe assassin of those most innocent victims ; they died by my 
machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, 
drop by drop, to have saved their lives ; but I could not, my father, 
indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race.” 

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas 
were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our con- 
versation, and endeavored to alter the course of my thoughts. 

He wished, as much as possible, to obliterate the memory of the 
scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and never alluded to them, 
or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes. 

As time passed away, I became more calm : my misery had her 
dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent 
manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness 
of them. By the utmost self-violence I curbed the imperious voice 
of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the 
whole world ; and my manners were calmer and more composed 
than they had river been since my journey to the sea of ice. 

We arrived s: Havre on the Sth of May, and instantly proceeded 
to Paris, where my father had some business, which detained us a 
few weeks. In this city, I received the following letter from Eliza- 
beth : — 

“To Victor Frankenstein. 

“My dearest Friend, — It gave me the greatest pleasure to re- 
ceive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris : you are no longer at a 
formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fort- 
night. , My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered I I expect 
to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted Geneva. 
This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been 
by anxious suspense ; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance, 
and to find that your heart is not totally devoid of comfort and 
^ tranquillity. 


148 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


“ Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you s« 
miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would 
not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes weigh 
upon you; but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to 
his departure, renders some explanation necessary before we meet. 

“Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have 
to explain? If you really say this, my questions are au-wered, and 
I have no more to do than to sign myself your aflectiunate cousin. 
But you are distant from me, and it is possible that }ou may dread, 
and yet be pleased with this explanation ; and, in a. probability of 
this being the case, I dare not any longer postpoi>e writing what, 
during your absence, I have often wished to express toj'ou, but have 
never had the courage to begin. 

“You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favorite 
plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this 
when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would 
certainly take place. We were affectionate play-fellows during 
childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as 
we grew older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively 
affection tow'ards each other, without desiring a more intimate 
union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. 
Answer me, I conjure you, by our mutual happiness, with simple 
truth, — Do you not love another? 

“You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life 
at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that, when I saw you 
last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society of every 
creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our con- 
nection, and believe yourself bound in honor to fulfil the wishes of 
your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclina- 
tions. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my cousin, 
that 1 love you, and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have 
been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness 
I desire as well as my own, when I declare to you that our marriage 
would render me eternally miserable, unless it were the dictate of 
your own free choice. Even now I weep to think, that, borne down 
as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word 
iouory all hope of that love and happiness which would alone re- 
store you to yourself. I, who have so interested an affv -ration for 
you, may increase your miseries tenfold, by being an obstacle to 
your wishes. Ah, Victoi, be assured that your cousin and playmate 
nas too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this sup* 
position. Be happy, my friend ; and, if you obey me in '.his one 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I4.9 

request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have power to 
interrupt my tranquillity. 

“ Do not let this letter disturb you ; do not answer it to-morrow, 
or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. 
My uncle will send me news of your health; and if I see but one 
smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other 
exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness. 

“ Elizabeth Lavenza 

“Geneva, May 18th, 17 — 


This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, 
the threat of the fiend, — “ / w/// be 'with you on your 'wedding-- 
night ! ” Such was my sentence, and on that night would the de- 
mon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from the glimpse 
of happiness which promised partly ,to console my sufferings. On 
that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my 
death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take 
place, in which, if he was victorious, I should be at peace, and his 
power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a 
free man. Alas 1 what freedom? such as the peasant enjoys when 
his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, 
his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, 
and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in my 
Elizabeth I possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors 
of remorse and guilt, which would pursue me until death. 

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth 1 I read and rt-read her letter, and 
some softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to whisper 
paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already 
eaten, and the angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I 
would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, 
death was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage 
would hasten my fate. My destruction might, indeed, arrive a few 
months sooner; but, if my torturer should suspect that I postponed 
it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other, and per- 
haps more dreadful, means of revenge. He had vowed to be with 
me on my wedding- night yet he did not consider that threat as bind- 
ing him to peace in the mean time; for, as if to show me that he 
was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immedi- 
ately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, 
that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce eifhef 
to her or my father’s happiness, my adversary’s designs against my 
life should not retard it a singk? hour. 


Frankenstein; or, 


150 

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm 
and affectionate. “ I fear, my beloved girl,” I said,* “ little happi- 
ness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy *« 
concentred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alorje do I 
consecrate my life, and my endeavors for contentment. I have one 
secret, Elizabeth, a di*eadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill 
your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at rny 
misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. 
I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our 
marriage shall take place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be per- 
fect confidence between us. But, until then, I conjure you, do not 
mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know 
you will comply.” 

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter, we returned 
to Geneva. My cousin welcomed me with warm affection ; yet tears 
were in her eyes, as she behefd my emaciated frame and feverish 
cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner, and had lost 
much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me ; but 
her gentleness, and soft looks of compassion, made her a more fit 
companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. 

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory 
brought madness with it; and when I thought on what had passed, 
areal insanity possessed me; .sometim,es I was furious, and burnt 
with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke nor 
looked, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries 
that overcame me. 

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her 
gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion, and 
inspire me w-ith human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept 
with me, and for me. When reason returned, she would remcn- 
strate, and endeavor to inspire me with resignation. Ah 1 it is well 
for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no 
peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is othenvise 
sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. 

Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my immediate mairiage 
with my cousin. I remained silent. 

“ Have you, then, some other attachment ?” 

“None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our 
union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it 
I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my 
cousin.” 

“ My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfor tines have 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


151 

befallen us ; but let us only cling closer to what remains, and 
transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet 
live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of aftec- 
tion and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened 
your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace 
those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived.” 

Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance 
of the threat returned: nor can you wonder, that, omnipotent as 
the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard 
him as invincible ; and that w'hen he had pronounced the words, 

1 shall be ■with you on your 'wedding-7iight” \ should regard the 
threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me, if the 
los!. of Elizabeth were balanced with it; and I therefore, with a 
contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father, 
that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in 
ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate. 

( ji eat God ! if for one instant I had thought of what might be the 
hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have 
banished myself for ever from my native country, and wandered a 
friendless outcast over the earth, than have consented to this 
miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the 
monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I thought 
that I prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer 
victim. 

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from 
cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. 
But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity, that 
brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly 
deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked 
forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled with 
a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now 
appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate into 
an airy dream, and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret. 

Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory visits wei'e 
received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as 
I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there, and entered 
With seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although 
they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. A house 
was purchased for us near Cologny, by which we should enjoy the 
pleasures of the country, and y^et be so near Geneva as to see. my 
father every' day; who would still reside within the walls, for the 
benefit of Ernest, that he might follow his studies at the schools. 


152 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


In the mean timt', I took every precaution to defend my peison^ 
in case the fiend openly attack me. I carried pistols and a 

dagger constantly about me, and was ever on the watch to prevent 
artifice; and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. 
Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a 
delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while 
the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appear- 
ance of certainty, as the day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer, 
and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no 
accident could possibly prevent. 

Elizabeth seemed happy ; my tranquil demeanoi contributed 
greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my 
wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of 
evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful 
secret which I had promised to reveal to her the following day. 
My father was in the mean time overjoyed, and, in the bustle of 
preparation, only observed in the melancholy of his niece the 
diffidence of a bride. 

After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at 
my father’s; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should pass the 
afternoon and night at Evian, and return to Cologny the next morn- 
ing. As the d^y was fair, and the wind favorable, we resolved to 
go by water. 

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed 
the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was 
hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy, while 
we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the 
lake, where we saw Mont Salfive, the pleasant banks of Montal^gre, 
and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and 
the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavor to 
emulate her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the 
mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit 
its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the 
invader who should wish to enslave it. 

I took the hand of Elizabeth: “You are sorrowful, my love. 
Ah! if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet endure, 
you would endeavor to let me taste the quiet, and freedom from 
despair, that this one day at least permits me to enjoy.” 

“Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth; “there is, I 
hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy 
is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something 
whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that if 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


153 


opened before us; but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. 
Observe how fast we move along, and how the clouds, which some- 
times obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, 
render this scene of beauty still more interesting. Look also at the 
innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters, where we 
can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine 
day! how happy and serene all nature appears!” 

Thus Elizabeth endeavored to divert her thoughts and mine from 
all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluc- 
tuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually 
gave place to distraction and reverie. 

The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance, 
and observed its path through the chasms of the higher, and the 
glens of the lower, hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, 
and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its 
eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods that 
surrounded it, and the range of mountain above mountain by which 
it was overhung. 

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing 
rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled 
the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we 
approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful 
scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the horizon as we 
landed; and, as I touched the shore, I felt those cares and fears 
revive, which soon were to clasp me, and cling to me for ever. 


' ♦ 

CHAPTER XXII. 

I T was eight o’clock when we landed : we walked for a short time 
on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retiied to 
the inn, and contemplated the lovelj' scene of waters, woods, and 
mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black 
outlines. 

■ The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great vio- 
lence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the 
I heavens, and was beginning to descend ; the clouds swept across it 
' swifter than the flight of the vulture, and dimmed her rays, while 
I the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busiet 


154 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a 
heavy storm of rain descended. 

I had been calm during the day; but, so soon as night obscured 
the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was 
anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which 
was hidden in my bosom. Every sound terrified me; but I resolved 
that I would sell my life dearly, and not relax the impending con- 
flict until my own life, or that of iny adversary, was extinguished. 

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fear- 
ful silence; at length she said, “What is it that agitates you, my 
dear Victor? What is it you fear?” 

“Oh! peace, peace, my love,” replied I; “this night, and all will 
be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.” 

I passed an hour in this state of mind, w'hen suddenly I reflected 
how dreadful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to 
my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to 
join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of 
my enemy. 

She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the 
passages of the house, and inspecting every corner that might afford 
a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and 
was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had inter- 
vened to prevent the execution of his menaces; when suddenly I 
heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into 
which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed 
into my mind, my arms dropped, the mbtion of every muscle and 
fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, 
and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but 
for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the 
room. 

Great God ! why did I not then expire? Why am I here to relate 
the destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth? 
She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her 
head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half cov- 
ered by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure, — her 
bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal 
bier. Could I oehold this, and live? ! life is obstinate, and 

clings closest where it is most hated.) For a moment only, and I 
lost recollection : I fainted. 

When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of 
the inn ; their countenances expressed a breathless terror : but the 
horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feel' 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


^55 


ings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where 
laj-^ the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so 
dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I 
had first beheld her; and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, 
and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have 
supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her, and embraced her with 
ardor: but the deathly languor and coldness of tl>e limbs told me, 
that what 1 now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth 
whom I had loved and ^cherished. The murderous marks of the 
fiend’s grasp were on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue 
from her lips. 

While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened 
to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened; 
and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the 
moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; 
and, with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the 
open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was 
on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish 
finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards 
the window, and, drawing a pistol from my bosom, shot; but he 
eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the swiftness 
of lightning, plunged into the lake. 

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I 
pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the 
track with boats ; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing severa* 
hours, we returned, hopeless ;* most of my companions believing it 
to have been a form conjured by my fancy. After having landed, 
they proceeded to search the countr}', parties going in different 
directions among the woods and vines. 

I did not accompany them; I was exhausted : a film covered my 
eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state 
I laj’ on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes 
wandered round the room, as if to seek something that I had lost. 1 

At length I remembered that my father would anxiously expect 
the return of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must return alone. 
This reflection brought tears into my eyes, and I wept for a long 
time but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting on 
my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of 
wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Jus- 
tine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that 
moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from 
the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be writhing 


156 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idci 
made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and re- 
solved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. 

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the 
lake; but the wind was unfavorable, and the rain fell in torrents. 
However, it was hardly morning, an<^ I might reasonably hope to 
arrive by night. I hired men to row, and took an oar myself; for J 
had always experienced relief from mental torment in boiily exer 
cise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agita- 
tion that I endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw 
down the oar, and, leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to 
every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes 
which were familiar to me in my happier- time, and which I had 
contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was 
now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my 
eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in 
the waters as they had done a few hours before : they had then been 
observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind 
as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds 
might lower; but nothing could appear to me as it had done the 
day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future 
happiness; no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so 
frightful an event was single in the history of man. 

But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last 
overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors ; I. have 
reached their acyne^ and what I must now relate can but be tedious 
to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I 
was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted; and I must tell, 
in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. 

I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived ; but the 
former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excel- 
lent and venerable old man I his eyes wandered in vacancy, for they 
had lost their charm and their delight, — his niece, his more than 
daughter, whom he doated on with all that affection which a man 
feels, who, in the decline of life, having few affections, clings 
more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend 
that brought misery on his gray hairs, and doomed him to waste in 
wretchedness I He could not live under the horrors that were ac- 
cumulated around him : an apoplectic fit was brought on, and in a 
few days he died in my arms. 

What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and 
chains and darkness were tJie only objects that pressed upon me. 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


157 

Sometimes, indeed, I dreamed that I wandered in flowery meadows 
and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth ; but awoke, and 
found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed; but, by degrees, 
I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation, and was 
then released from my prison. For they had called me mad; and, 
during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my 
habitation. 

But liberty had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I ^wakened 
to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory 
of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their 
cause, — the monster whom I had created, the miserable demon 
whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was 
possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired 
and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp, to 
wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. 

Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes: I began to 
reflect on the best means of securing him; and, for this purpose, 
about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in 
the town, and told him that I had an accusation to make; that I 
knew the destroyer of my family; and that I required him to exert 
his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. 

The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. “ Be 
assured, sir,” said he, “ no pains or exertions on my part shall be 
spared to discover the villain.” 

“I thank you,” replied I; “listen, therefore, to the deposition 
that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should 
fear you would not credit it, were there not something in truth 
which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too 
connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for 
falsehood.” My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive, 

? but calm : I had formed in my heart a resolution to pursue my 
i destroyer to death ; and this purpose quieted my agony, and provi- 
i dentially reconciled me to life. I now related my history briefly, 
but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, 
and never deviating into invective or exclamation. 

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous; but, as I 
1 continued, he became more attentive and interested: I saw him 
■ sometimes shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, un- 
mingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. 

I , When I had concluded my narration, I said, — “ This is the beinj 
whom I accuse, and for whose detection and punishment I call 
upon yoii to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magis* 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


ISS 

trate, and I believe and hope that jour feelings as a ma.- -vrill not 
revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion.” 
This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of 
my auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief 
that is. given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when 
he was called upon to act officially in consequence, tlie whole tide 
of h1s incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, — “I 
would \^dllingly afford you every aid in your pursuit; but the crea- 
ture of whom 3 ’ou speak appears to have powers which would put 
all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which 
can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens, w’here no 
man w^ould venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed 
since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to 
what place he has wandered, or what region he may now inhabit.’* 

“I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; 
and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted 
like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive 
your thoughts : you do not credit my narrative, and do not intend 
to pursue my enemy with the punishment w'hich is his desert.” 

As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes ; the magistrate was in 
timidated. “ You are mistaken,” said he : “ I will exert myself ; and 
if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall 
suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from 
what you have j'ourself described to be his properties, that this will 
prove impracticable, and that, w'hile every proper measure is pur- 
sued, you should endeavor to make up your mind to disappoint- 
ment.” 

“That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. 
My revenge is of no moment to you ; yet, while I allow it to be a 
vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. 
My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer, whom I 
have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just 
demand : I have but one resource ; and I devote myself, either in 
my life or death, to his destruction.” 

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this ; there was a 
frenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty 
fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. 
But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far 
other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of 
mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavored to 
soothe me, as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tale as the 
effects of delirium. 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I55 

“Man,” I cried, “ how ignorant art thou in Ihy pride of wisdom I 
Cease ; you know not what it is you say.” 

I bioke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to medi- 
tate on some other mode of action. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

/TY present situation was one in which all voluntary thought 
was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury: 
revenge alone endowed me witb strength and composure; it mod- 
elled my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at 
periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my 
portion. 

My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, 
which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my 
adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, 
together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and 
departed. 

And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. 
I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all 
the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, 
are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times 
have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed 
for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave 
my adversary in being. 

When I quitted Geneva, my first labor was to gain some clew by 
which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan 
was unsettled; and I wandered many hours around the confines 
of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night ap- 
proached, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where 
William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it, and 
approached the tomb which marked their graves. Every thing was 
silent, except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated 
by the wind; the night was nearly dark; and the scene would have 
been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The 
spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and to cast a shadow, 
which was felt, but seen not, around the head of the mourner. 

. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited, quickly gav« 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


i6o 

waj to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived ; their mur 
derer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary 
existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the earth, and, with 
quivering lips, exclaimed, — “ By the sacred earth on which I kneel, 
by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grie 
that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and by the spirits that 
preside over thee, I swear to pursue the demon who caused this 
misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this pur- 
pose I will preserve my life: to execute this dear revenge, will I 
again behold the sun, anu tread the green herbage of the earth, 
which otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I ca.U 
on you, spirits of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of 
vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and 
hellish monster drink deep of agony*; let him feel the despair that 
now torments me.” 

I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe which” 
almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard 
and approved my devotion ; but the furies possessed me as I con- 
cluded, and rage choked my utterance. 

I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiend- 
ish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the mountains 
re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery 
and laughter. Surely, in that moment I should have been possessed 
by frenzy, and have destroyed my miserable existence, but that my 
vow was heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laugh- 
ter died away; when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparentl,)- 
close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper, — “I am satis- 
fied : miserable wretch 1 you have determined to live, and I an? 
satisfied.” 

I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but 
the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon 
arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as he 
fled with more than mortal speed. 

I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task. 
Guided by a slight clew, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but 
vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange 
cnuiice, I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself in a vessel 
bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship ; but 
he escaped, I know not how. 

Amid the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded 
me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, 
scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of hi’s path ; some- 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


l6l 


limes he himself, who feared that if I lost trace I should despair and 
die, often left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my 
head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To 
you, first entering on life, to wdiom care is new, and agony un* 
known, how can you understand what I have felt, and still feel? 
Cold, want, and fatigue were the least pains which I was destined 
to endure; I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me 
my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed n v 
steps, and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate m 
from seemingly insurmountable dilficulties. Sometimes, when na- 
ture, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was 
prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me. The 
fare was indeed coarse, such as the peasants of the coinUry ate; 
but I may not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had 
invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, 
and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, 
shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish. 

I follow'ed, when I could, the courses of the rivers ; but the demon 
generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the 
country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were sel- 
dom seen ; and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that 
crossed my path. I had money with me, and gained the friendship 
of the villagers by distributing it, or bringing with me some food 
that I had killed, W'hich, after taking a small part, I alw'ays pre- 
sented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for 
cooking. 

My life, as it passed thus, w^as indeed hateful to me, and it was 
during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, 
w'hen most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me 
even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these 
moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I might retain strength 
to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have 
sunk under my hardships. During the day, I was sustained and in- 
spirited by the hope of night: for in sleep I saw my friends, my 
wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent counie- 
nance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s voice, 
and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when w'ea- 
ried by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming 
until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the 
arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I feel for 
them I How’ did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they 
haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still 


11 


i 62 


FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 


lived! At such moments, vengeance, that burned within me, died 
in my heait, and I pursued my path towards the destructioii of the 
demon, more as a task enjoined by Heaven, as the mechanical i»n- 
pulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as Die aidenl 
desire of my soul. 

Wh.-it his feelings were whom I pursued, I cannot know. Some- 
times, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or 
cut in the stone, that guided me, or instigated my fury. “My reign 
is not yet over” (these words were legible in one of these inscrip- 
tions) : “you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek 
the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of 
cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this 
place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be re- 
freshed. Come on, my enemy ; we have yet to wrestle for our lives : 
but many hard and miserable hours must you endure, until that 
Deriod shall arrive.” 

Scoffing devil! again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote 
thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I omit my 
search, until he or I perish ; and then with what ecstasy shall I join 
my Elizabeth, and those who even now prepare for me the reward 
of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage ! 

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thick- 
ened, and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to sup- 
port. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of 
the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals which starvation 
had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers 
were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I 
was cut off from my chief article of maintenance. 

The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my 
labors. Ont; inscription that he left was in these words : “ Prepare 1 
your toils only begin : wrap yourself in furs, and provide food, for 
we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will sat- 
isfy my everlasting hatred.” 

■ courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing 
; I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on heaven 
pport me, I continued with unabated fervor to traverse im- 
mense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance, and formed 
the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh, how unlike it was to the 
bhie seas of the south 1 Covered with ice, it was only to be distin- 
guished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The 
Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the 
hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils 


TilE MODERN DltOMETIIEUS. 


163 

I did not weep; but I knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked 
my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I 
hoped, notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe, to meet and grapple 
with liim. 

Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, 
and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I knosr 
net whether the fiend possessed the same advantages ; but I found 
that, as before 1 had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gaiu.ed 
on him; so much so, that when I first saw the ocean, he was but 
one day’s journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before 
he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed 
on, and in two days arrived at a wTetched hamlet on the seashore. 
I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained 
accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived 
the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting to 
flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his ter- 
rible appearance. He carried off their store of winter food, and 
placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous 
drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, 
to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey 
across the sea in a direction that led to no land ; and they con- 
jectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking ice, or 
frozen by the eternal frosts. 

On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of 
despair. He had escaped me ; and I must commence a destructive 
and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the 
Dcean — amid cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure, 
ind w'hich I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not 
nope to survive. Yet, at the idea that the fiend should live and be 
triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and, like a mighty 
tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, dur- 
ing which the spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated me 
to toil and revenge, 1 prepared for my journey. 

I exchanged my land sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities 
«f the frozen ocean ; and, purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions 
t departed from the land. 

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I 
lave endured misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a 
just retribution, burning within my heart, could have enabled me to 
jupport. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up 
my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which 
threatened my destruction, But again the frost came, and mad« 
the paths of the sea secure. 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


164 

By the qufintity of provision which I had consumed, I should 
guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the con- 
tinual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart, often 
wrung bitter drops of despondenty and grief from my eyes. De- 
spair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I ^should soon have 
sunk beneath this misery; w’hen once, after the poor animals that 
carried me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping 
ice mountain, and one sinking under his fatigue died, I viewed the 
expanse before me with anguish, and suddenly my eye caught a 
dark speck, upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover 
what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I dis- 
tinguished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known 
form within. Oh, with what a burning gush did hope revisit my 
heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wdped away, that 
they might not intercept the view I had of the demon ; but still my 
sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the 
emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud. 

But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of 
their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food ; and, 
after an hour’s rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which 
was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was 
still visible; nor did I again lose sight of it, except at the moments 
when for a short time some ice rock concealed it with its interven- 
ing crags. I indeed pe^rceptibly gained on it; and when, after 
nearly two days’ journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile 
distant, my heart bounded within me. 

But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my enemy, my 
hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more 
utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard ; the 
thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath 
me every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in 
vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty 
iihock of an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a tremendous 
and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished : in a few 
minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I 
was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that was continually 
lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death. 

In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs 
died; and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation ot 
distress, when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth 
to me hopes of succor and life. I had no conception that vessels 
ever came so far north, and was astounded at the sight. I quickly 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 


i6^ 

destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars ; and by tho«e means 
was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direc- 
tion of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward, 
still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas, rather than abandon 
my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which 
I could still pursue my enemy. But your direction was northward. 
You took me on board when my vigor was exhausted, and I should 
soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death, which 
I still dread — for my task is unfulfilled. 

Oh 1 when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the demon, 
allow me the rest I so much desire; or must 1 die, and he yet live? 
If i do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape; that you 
will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in his death. Yet, do I 
dare ask you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships 
that I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am 
dead, if he should appear; if the ministers of vengeance should 
conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live, — swear that he 
shall not triumph over my accumulated woes and live to make 
another such a wretch as I am. He is eloquent and persuasive; 
and once his words had even power over my heart; but trust him 
not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiend- 
like malice. Hear him not; call on the names of William, Justine, 
Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust 
your sword intd hils heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel 
aripht. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

WALTON, IN CONTINUATION. 

August a6th, 17 — . 

Y OU have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do 
you not feel your blood congealed with horror, like that which 
even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he 
could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet pier- 
cing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with agony. His 
fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now 
subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched in infinite wretchedness. 
Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones, and related 
t>ie most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every 


FKANKfiNSTElN J OR, 


l66 

mark of agitation-, then, like a volcano bursting forth, his fac« 
would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage, as he 
s’nrieled out imprecations on his persecutor. 

His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the simplest 
truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Satie, which 
he showed me, and the apparition of the monster, seen from our ship, 
brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative 
than his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a 
monster has then really existed; I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in 
surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavored to gain from 
F rankenstein the particulars of his creature’s formation ; but on tliis 
point he was impenetrable. 

“Are you mad, my friend?” said he, “or whither does your 
senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create. for yourself 
and the world a demoniacal enemy? Or to what do your questions 
tend? Peace, peace I learn my miseries, and do not seek to increase 
your own.” 

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his his- 
tory : he asked to see them, and then himself corrected and aug- 
mented them in many places; but principally in giving life and 
spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. “Since you 
have preserved my narration,” said he, “I would not that a muti- 
lated one should go down to posterity.” 

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strang- 
est tale that ^‘ver imagination formed. My thoughts, and every 
feeling of my soul, have been drunk up by the interest for my guest, 
which Miis tale and his own elevated and gentle manners have cre- 
ated. I wish to soothe him; yet can I counsel one so infinitely 
miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, 
no I the only joy that he can now know will be when he composes 
his shattered feelings to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one com- 
fort the offspring of solitude and delirium : he believes, that, when 
in dreams he holds converse with his friends, and derives from that 
communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements to his 
vengeance, they are not the creations of his fancy, but the real 
beings, who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This 
faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that renders them to me 
almost as imposing and interesting as truth. 

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and 
misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays un- 
bounded knowledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension. Hi* 
eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when h« 


THE MODERN I’ROMETHKUS. 


167 


relates a pathetic incident, or endeavors to move the passions of 
pitj or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have 
been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and god- 
like in ruin 1 He seems to feel his own worth and the greatness of 
his fall. 

“'When younger,” said he, “I felt as if I were destined for some 
great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but 1 pf).ssessed a cool- 
ness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievetnents. This 
sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me, when others 
would have been oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throwaway 
in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow- 
creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a 
one than the creation of a sensitive, rational animal, I could not 
rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this feeling, 
which supported me in the commencement of my career, now serv’es 
only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and 
hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel who aspired to om- 
nipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was 
vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by 
the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the 
creation, of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, 
my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my 
thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea 
of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes 
and a lofty ambition ; but how am I sunkl 

“O my friend! if you had known me as I once v/as, you would 
not recognize me in this state of degradation. Despondency’ rarely 
visited my heart; a high desjtiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, 
never, never again to rise.” 

Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend ; 
I have sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Be- 
hold, on these desert seas I have found such a one; but I fear 1 have 
gained him only to know his value and lose him. 1 would reconcile 
him to life, but he repulses the idea. 

“ I thank you, Walton,” he said, “ for your kind attentions towards 
so miserable a wretch; but, when you speak of new ties and fresh 
affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? 
Can any man be to me as Clerval was; or any woman another 
Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not strongly moved by 
any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always 
possess a certain power over our minds, which hardly any latei 
friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which. 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


i68 

however they may be afterwards modified, aie never eradicated ; and 
they can judge of our -actions with more certain conclusions as to 
the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, un- 
less indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the 
other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly 
he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded with sus- 
picion. But I enjoyed friends, dear, not only through habit and 
association, but from their own merits; and, wherever 1 am, the 
soothing voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, 
will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead ; and but one feel- 
ing in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If 1 
W'ere engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with ex- 
tensive utility to my fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. 
But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to 
whom I gave existence ; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I 
may die.” 

September 2A 

My beloved Sister, — I write to you encompassed by peril, and 
ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England, and 
the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains* 
of ice, which admit of no escape, and threaten every moment to 
crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have persuaded to be 
my companions, look towards me for aid ; but I have none to bestow. 
There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my cour- 
age and hopes do not desert me. We may survive; and, if we do 
not, I will repeat the lessons of my Seneca, and die with a good 
heart. 

Yet, what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will 
not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously wait my return. 
Years will pass, and you will have visitings of despair, and jet be 
tortured by hope. O my beloved sister 1 the sickening failings of 
your heart-felt expectations are, in prospect, more terrible to me 
than my own death. But you have a husband, and lovely ck^ 'dren ; 
you may De happy : Heaven bless you, and make you so 1 

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion 
He endeavors to fill me with hope ; and talks as if life were a pos 
session which he valued. He reminds me how often the same acci 
dents have happened to other navigators, who have attempted this 
sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. 
Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence : when he speaks, 
they no longer despair; he rouses thei» energies, and, while thej 


THE MODERN rROMKTl J EUS. J 69 

hear his voice, they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole- 
hills, which will vanish before the resolution of man. These feel- 
ings are transitory; each day’s expectation delayed fills them with 
fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this despair. ^ 

September 5th- 

A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that, although 
i is highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I 
cannot forbear recording it. 

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent 
danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, 
and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave 
amid this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in 
health: a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes; but he is ex- 
hausted, and, when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily 
sinks again into apparent lifelessness. 

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. 
Phis morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend, 
— his eyes half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly, — I was 
roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who desired admission into 
the cabin. They entered; and their leader addressed me. He told 
me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors 
to come in deputation to me, to make me a demand, which, in jus- 
tice, I could hot refuse. We were immured in ice, and should 
probably never escape; but they feared that if, as was possible, the 
ice should dissipate, and a free passage be opened, I should be rash 
enough to continue my voyage, and lead them into fresh dangers, 
after they might happily have surmounted this. 

They desired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn 
promise, that if the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct 
my course southward. 

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired ; nor had I yet 
conceived the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, 
or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I 
answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, 
indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused 
himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary 
vigor. Turning towards the men, he said, — 

“What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? 
Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did you not call 
this a glorious expedition? and wherefore was it glorious? Not be- 
cause the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because 


170 


FUANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


it was full of dangers and terror; because, at every nei^ inciMenlt 
your fortitude was to be called forth, and your courage exhibited; 
because danger and death surrounded, and these dangers you were 
to brav’^e and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it 
an honoVable, undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as thf 
benefactors of your species; your names adored, as belonging to 
brave men who encountered death for the honor and benefit of man 
kind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or 
if you will, the first miglity and terrific trial of your courage, you 
shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who had 
not strength enough to endure cold and peril ; and so, poor souls, 
they were chilly, and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that 
requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and 
dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove 
yourselves cowards. Oh I be men, or be more than men. Be 
steady to your purpose, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made 
of such stuff as your hearts might be; it is mutable, cannot with* 
stand you, if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your 
families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Re- 
turn as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who know not 
what it is to turn their backs on the foe.” 

. He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings 
expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of loftj' design and 
heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved? They 
looked atone another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told 
them to retire, and consider of what had been said ; that I would 
not lead them further north, if they strenuously desired the con- 
trary; but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would 
return. 

They retired, and I turned towards my friend ; but he was sunk 
In languor, and almost deprived of life. 

How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die, 
than return shamefully, — my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such 
will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and 
honor, can never willingly continue to endure their present hard- 
ships. 

September 7th. 

The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not de- 
stroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; 

I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philoso 
phy than I possess, to bear this injustice with patience. 


T}{E MODERN HROMETIIKUS. 


* 7 ^ 

September lath. 

It is past; * am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of 
utility and glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavor to 
detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while 
I am wafted towards Englantl, and towards you, I will not despond. 

September loth, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder 
were heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every 
direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could 
only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my un- 
fortunate guest, whose illness increased in such a degree that he 
was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and 
was driven with force towards the north ; a breeze sprung from the 
west, and on the nth the passage towards the south became per- 
fectly free. When the sailors saw this, and that their return to 
their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous 
joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, 
who was dozing, aw’oke, and asked the cause of the tumult. “ They 
shout,” I said, “because they will soon return to England.” 

“Do you then really return?” 

“Alas I 3 'es; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead 
them unwillingly to danger, and I must return.” 

“Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your pur- 
pose; but mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. 1 am 
weak; but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow 
me with sufficient strength.” Saying this, he endeavored to spring 
from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him ; he fell back, 
and fainted. 

It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life 
was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes, but he breathed 
with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon ga-'-e him a 
composing draught, and ordered us to leave him undistuibed. In 
the mean time, he told me that my friend had certainly not many 
hours to live. 

His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and be 
patient. I sat by his bed watching him; his eyes were closed, and 
I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, 
and, bidding me come near, said, — “ Alas ! the strength I relied on 
is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and perse- 
cutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last 
moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred, and ardent 
desire of revenge, I once expressed ; but I feel myself justified in 
desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I have 


173 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR 


been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it 
blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational 
creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was in 
my power, his happiness and well-being. Tliis was my duty; but 
there was still another, paramount to that. My duties towards my 
fellow-creatures had grea^.er claims to my attention, because the) 
included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged bt 
this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing to create a compan 
ion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and 
selfishness in evil : he destroyed my friends ; he devoted to destruc- 
tion beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and 
wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end. 
Miserable himself, that he may render no other wretched he ought 
to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. 
When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to under- 
take my unfinished work; and I renew this request now, when I am 
only induced by reason and virtue. 

“Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to 
fulfil this task; and now, that you are returning to England, you 
will have little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration 
of these points, and the well-balancing of what you may esteem 
your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already 
disturbed by the near approach of death. I da»*e not ask you to do 
what I think right, for I may still be misled by passion. 

“That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs 
me; in other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my re- 
lease, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. 
The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their 
arms. Farewell, Walton I Seek happiness in tranquillity, and 
avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of 
distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why d^ I 
say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another 
may succeed.” 

His voice became fainter as he spoke; and, at length, exhausted 
by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards, 
he attempted again to speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand 
feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle 
•mile passed away from his lips. 

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction 
of this glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to un- 
derstand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would 
be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overs lad- 


TTIR MODERN PRO.-ifETllE^*. 1 73 

owed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey towards En§f- 
land, and I may there find consolation. 

I am interrupted. What do those sounds portend? It is mid- 
night; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on the deck scarcely 
stir. Again; there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it 
comes from the cabin where tho remains of Frankenstein still lie. 
I must arise, and examine. Good-night, my sister. 

Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizjv 
with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall h:i\ » 
the power to detail it; yet the talc which I have recorded would be 
incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe. 

I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and 
admirable friend. Ove^ him hung a form which I cannot find 
words to describe ; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in 
its preparations. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed 
by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in 
color and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard 
the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief 
and horror, and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a 
vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome yet appalling hid- 
eousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and endeavored to recol- 
lect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on 
him to stay. 

He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning 
towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my 
presence, and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the 
wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion. 

“That is also my victim,” he exclaimed; in his murder my 
crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is 
wound to its close! O Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted 
being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who 
irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas 1 
he is cold ; he may not answer me.” 

His voice seemed sufibcated, and my first impulses, which had 
smigested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, 
in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curi- 
osity and compassion. I approached this tremendous being: I 
dared not again raise mj looks to his face, there was something so 
scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but 
the words died on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild 
and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to 
address him, in a pause of the tempest of his passion: “Your re- 


174 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 


pentance,” I said, “is now superfluous. If you had lister ed to th« 
voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of remorse, before you 
had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity. Frankenstein 
would yet have lived.” 

“And do you dream,” said the demon, “ do you think that I was 
then dead to agony and remorse?* He,” he continued, pointing to 
the corpse, “he suffered not more in the consummation of the deed J 
h! not the ten-th’ousandth portion of the anguish that was mine 
during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness 
hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think 
ye that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart 
was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when 
wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the vio- 
lence of the change without torture, such as you cannot even 
imagine. 

“After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart- 
broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my })ity amounted 
to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the 
author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable to/ments, 
dared to hope for happiness; that while he accumulated w'rctched- 
ness and despair upon me, he sought his own enjoyment in feelings 
and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred- 
then omnipotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insa- 
tiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved 
that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for 
myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master, of an 
impulse which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she 
died! — nay, then I w^as not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, 
subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil 
thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but 
to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. 
The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable pas- 
sion. And now it is ended : there is my last victim ! ” 

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet when 
I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of elo- 
quence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the life- 
less form of my friend, in.r?ignation was rekindled within me. 
“Wretch!” I said, “it is well that yor come here to whine over 
the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile 
of buildings, and when they are consumed you sit among the ruins, 
and lament the fall. Hj'pocritical fiend ! if he whom you mourn 
still lived, still would he be the obiect, again would he become th« 


THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


175 


prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel ; you 
lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn 
from your power.” 

“Oh, it is not thus, — not thus,” interruf ’:ed the being; “yet 
sucl must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be 
the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in rry 
misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it 
was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with 
which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be particijiated. 
But now, that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happi- 
ness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in 
what should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone, 
while my sufferings shall endure; w'hen I die, I am well satisfied 
that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once 
my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoy- 
ment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning 
my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I 
was capable of bringing forth. I was nourished with high thoughts 
of honor and devotion. But now vice has degraded me beneath the 
meanest animal. No crime, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, 
can’ be found comparable to mine. When I call over the frightful 
catalogue of my deeds, I cannot believe that I am he whose thoughts 
were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty 
and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so ; the fallen angel 
becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man 
had friends and associates in his desolation: I am quite alone. 

“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowl- 
edge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he 
gave you of them, he could not sum up the hours and months of 
misery which I endured, wasting in impotent passions. For, while 
I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were 
foV ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I 
was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this ? Am I to be thought 
the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me? Why 
do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of 
his child? Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate beings; I, the 
miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, 
and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood boils ai the 
recollection of this injustice. 

“ But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely 
and the helpless ; I have strangled the kinocent as they slept, and 
grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other liv 


176 


FRANKENSTEIN ; OK, 


ing thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all 
that is worthy of love and admiration am.'. ng rr.cn, to misery; 1 
have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, 
white and cold in death. You hate me; but your abhorrence can- 
not equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hards 
which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagina- 
tion of it was conceived, and long for the moment when the^ will 
meet my eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more. 

Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My 
work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man’s death is needed 
to consummate the series of my being, and to accomplish that which 
must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall 
be .>low to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice- 
raft which brought me hither, and shall seek the most northern ex- 
tremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume 
to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light 
to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such 
another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the 
agonies that consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet 
unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I 
shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily 
vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the wind.s 
play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and 
in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, whea 
the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when \ 
felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of 
leaves and the chirping of the birds, and these were all to me..^ 
shoiUd have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluiid 
by bitter crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I fihd 
rest but in death ? 

“ Farewell ! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind these 
eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein I If thou wert jet 
alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be 
better satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not 
so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater 
wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hast 
not yet ceased to think and feel, thou desirest not mj^ life for my 
own misery. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to 
thine: for the bitter stings of remorse may not cease to rankle in 
tny wounds until death shall close tl>em for ever. 

“ But soon,” he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall 
die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning 


THK MODERN PROMETHEUS. 


177 


miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend mj funeral pile trium* 
phantly, and exult in the agonj of the torturing flames. The light 
of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into 
the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace ; or, if it thinks, 
it will not surely think thus. Farewell.” 

He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice’ 
Txift which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the. 
»atres, and lost in darkness and distance. 


ran irara. 


\ 



# 




AO 


rf!>^ 

■■ 








t ‘ 


C 5 -.X.' rr''^ 


-% . || • • 


r ’■« •;. I '^f/fT?! •><< fliW ' ^ 

^iVt' ' ; i<>^’ >'i? V"’ V.*'*C»T,'* ’ ■‘•nicA’ r;«?t 

•.J' .:‘}w J ; V :vTf. ■;,J-'1 V V' iioi JJiiVj; tt 

. ,yo ' ■y.t''ti ii: qrali: V. vj'.- to vl^ rl'f- 'irli ^ r<}i: 

,;.• /?'.■ w. .. !r' 7 :-)f:A i,ji.-v' 


. J 




«/ 


^ - 




3;i 




1 


(ft*.* 






.’/ sll .i' -'i'^v 1 *>J o; *!-< ■' liriif'A' 0>' 


^|♦^ ■ V '.i ; C ':'I'^ J .COO*' *v. > 

* ' ' ' ' ’• ‘ n-ii ri t j?'! t.;i 4 .-* >■ a 5 


* • « 


1 *. 


1 

.' • 






^ \ I . 


A* 




y 


w . 


:t. t*. 


-r> 




D 

© rj 


» . 
*-V' f .'.1 ^ 




»it* 




r • 


% 

. ’ \ 


\ 

« 4 




_» « ► • 


- - > • 


^ 


/ , r 


* 4 . 


^ f 


• 4 . » . ' 


• • 


,4 


I 






] r-*; “* 


f 

St 


•w. .VrfJ 



• .- 


> 




-? ^ - 

^ ' 

-I 


f • • ) 

. » 


. 1 

. . ■>. 


> t 


..4. 




• 


l- 


A" . 


> ♦ 



If you appreciate a Corset that will neither break down nor roH 

t>, VOtOTy 

TRY BALL’S CORSETS, 

If you value health and comfort, 

WEAR BALL’S CORSETS. 

If you desire a Corset that fits the first day you wear it, and needs 
no ‘‘breaking in,” 

BUY BALL’S CORSETS. 

If you desire a Corset that yields with every motion of the body, 
EXAIflllNE BALL’S CORSETS. 

If you want a perfect fit and support without compression, 

USE BALL’S CORSETS. 

Owing to their peculiar construction it is impossible to break steels 
Ball’s Corsets. 

The Elastic Sections in Ball’s Corsets contain no rubber, and 
ranted to out-wear the Corset. 

Everj pair sold vith the follovicg guaraztes : 

“if not perfectly satisfactory in every respect after three; 
weeks^ trial, the money paid for them will be refunded (by thej 
dealer), Soiled or Vnaoiled.’^ 

The wonderful popularity of Ball’s Corsets has Induced rival manufacturer^ 
to imitate them. If you want a Corset that will give perfect satisfaction, 
insist on purchasing one marked, Patented Fed. 22, ibSi. 

And see that the name BALL is on the Box* 

For Sale by all Leadiue Bry Goods Dealers* 





GLUTEN SUPPOSITORIES 

Ciure Constipation and Piles! 

I)B. W. Thompson, Northjunpton, Mass., eaye : “ I have tested the Gluten Sup 
|>08itorie8, and consider them valuable, as indeed, I expected from the excellence ol 
their theory.” 

Dll. Wm. Tod Helmtjth deehtres the Gluten Suppositories to be “the best remedy 
lor constipation which I have ever prescribed.” 

“As Sancho Panza said of sleep, so say I of your Gluten Suppositories; God blem 
the man who invented them I” — E, L. Ripdet, Burlington, Vt. 

SO Cents hy Mail, CirciUars Free, 

Health food CO., 4th Avenue and 10th St., N. 1 
% — — 1 , . — — ■ ■■ ,1 


T his is a most excellent 

Article for Clcansmg and Pre- 
serving the Teeth. It hardens the 
gums, sweetens the breath, and 
beautifies the teeth . It contains i»5 
acid or harsh, gritty substance — 
nothing that can injure the cnamri 
in the slightest degree. By it. s con- 
stant use the teeth retain their effi- 
ciency and be;iuty, even to the ex- 
treme duration of life. It is put cp 
in bottles, which prevents its bein^ 
spoiled by exposure to the atmos- 
phere, preserving its original corii- 
bi nation of parts and its deliciuos 
flavor. 



SOLD BY ALL DRTICCBSTSc 



THE CELEBRATED 

Chine^G Skin and Toilet Powdei 

FOB 

Preserving, Restoring, and BeauU^ 
ing the Complexion. 

Boxes, 2 5 cents. Sold by all Drug 
gists and Fancy Goods Houses. 




Grea*; Ec^ish Remedy for Gont, Rheumatism and Eidaaa 
Oomplaints. Sure, prompt and effective. 

Oral Boxes, 34 Pills; Round Boxes, 14 Pills. 

AT ALL DRUGGISTS, and 

334: TVllliam Street, New 


By thine own soul’s law, learn to livo ; 

And if men thwart thee, take no heed. 

And if men hate thee, have no care-^ 

Sing thou thy song, and do thy deed ; 

Hope thou thy hope, and pray thy prayer. 

And claim no crown they will not give. 

John G. Whittiek. 

4 

JUST PUBLISHED. 

INTEGRAL CO-OPERATlON 

By ALBERT K. OWEN. 

A book (200 pages, 12mo) containing three plans Illustrating sections and 
buildings suggested for “Pacific Colony Site,” and two maps showing 
Topolobampo Bay, Sinaloa, Mexico, Including “Mochis Ranch,” the valley of 
th'; Rio Fuerte and its vicinage. 

Price, 30 cents. Sent, postage free, by John W. Lovell Co., Nos. 
14 and 16 Vesey Street, New York City. 


Also, a Weekly Paper, 



Edited by MARIE and EDWARD HOWLAND, 


Hammonton, New Jersey. 

ji.nnual SubaeripHotif $1 j six months, SOc.j three months, 25c» 

This paper (16-page pamphlet) is devoted exclusively to the propaganda 
for the practical application of integral-co-operation. 

While being an uncompromising exponent of Socialism, the Credit 
Foncier urges constructive measures and counsels against destructive 
methods. Its Colonists are to be known as “ constructionists ” and “ indivia- 
ualists ” in contradestinction to a branch of socialists who favor destruction 
and communism. 

The Credit Foncier presents a matured plan, with details, for farm, 
city, factory, and clearing house ; and invites the farmer, manufacturer, 
artizan, engineer, architect, contractor, and accountant to unite and organize 
to build for themselves homes. In keeping with solidity, art, and sanitation. 

It asks for evolution and not for revolution ; for inter-dependence and not 
for Independence ; for co-operation and not for competition ; for equity and 
not for equality ; for duty and not for liberty ; for employment and not for 
charity; for eclecticism and not for dogma; for one law and not for class 
legislation ; for corporate management and not for political control ; for State 
responsibility for every person, at all times and in every place, and not for 
municipal irresponsibility for any person, at any time or in any place ; and 
it demands that the common interests of the citizen — the atmosphere, land, 
water, light iiower, exchange, transportation, construction, sanitation, edu- 
cation, entertainment, insurance, production, distribution, etc., etc. — “be 
pooled,” and that the private life of the citizen be held sacred. 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 

ISSUES. 


fi04 At Bay, by Mrs. Alexander 10 

C^15 Mornings in Florence, by lluskiii..l5 
Cbf) Barbara's Rival, by Ernest Young 20 
^()7 Story of a Sculptor, by Conway... 10 
66S St. Mark s Rest, by John Ru8kin..l5 

G()9 Hilda, by Bertha M. Clay 10 

GTO Deucalion, by Ruskin 10 

G71 The Scout, by Simms o5 

C72 Slings and Arrow^s, by Conway... JO 

G74 Art of England, by Ruskin 15 

G74 The Wigwam and Cabin, by Simms.SO 

G75 A Rainy June, by Ouida 10 

67G Eagle’s Nest, by Ruskin 15 

077 Vasconselos, by Simms, 30 

678 White Heather, by Black.. 20 

079 Our FgLthers have Told Us, Ruskin.l5 

680 Confession, by Simms 30 

681 A Girton Girl, by Mrs, Edw^ards.. .20 

082 Proserpina, by Ruskin 16 

GS3 The Ghost’s Touch, by Collins. ,. .10 

684 Woodcraft, by Simms 30 

G85 Vald’Arno, by Ruskin 15 

086 My Lady’s Money, by Collins 10 

687 Richard Hurdis, by Simms 30 

6S8 Love’s Meinie, by Ruskiu 15 

689 Her Martyrdom, by B. M. Clay. . .20 

690 Guy Rivers, by Simms 30 

091 A Woman’s Honor, by Young .20 

692 Lord Lynne’s Choice, B. M. Clay.. 10 

093 Border Beagles, by W. G. Simms.. 30 

094 The Shadow of a Sin, B. M. Clay.. 10 

695 Wedded and Parted, by B. M. Clay.lO 

696 I'he Master of the Mine, Buchanan. 10 

697 The Forayers, by Simms 30 

698 The Mistletoe Bough, M.E.Braddon, 20 

699 Self or Bearer, Walter Besant. 10 

700 In Cupid’s Net, by B. M. Clay 10 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret, B. M. Clay.. 20 

702 Charlemont, by W. G. Simms ... .30 

703 Eutaw, by W. G. Simms 30 

704 Evolution, Rev. C. F. Deems, D.D.20 

705 Beauchampe, by W. G. Simms 30 

706 No. 99, by Arthur Grifiiths 10 

707 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin, P’t I, 30 

708 Fors C'avigera, by Ruskin. P’t II. .30 

709 Woman against Woman, by Holmes . 20 

710 Picciola, by J. X. B. Saintine 10 

711 Undine, by Baron de la Motte 

Fouque 10 

712 Woman, by August Bebel 30 

713 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t III.30 

714 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t IV.30 

715 A Cardinal Sin, by Hugh Con way. 20 

716 A Crimson Stain, Annie Bradshaw. 20 

717 ACountryGentleman,Mrs.Oliphant.20 

718 A Gilded Sin, by B. M. Clay 10 

719 Rory O’More, by Samuel Lover. . . .20 

720 Between Two Loves, B. M. Clay. . . 20 

721 Lady Branksmere, by The Duchess. 20 

722 The Evil Genius, by Wilkie Collins.20 
721 Running the Gauntlet, by Yates. . .20 

724 Broken to Harness, Edmund Yates. 20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love, Margaret Lee.. 25 

726 Austin Eliot, by Henry Kingsley.. 20 


727 

728 

729 

730 

731 

732 

733 
784 

735 

736 

737 

738 

739 

740 

741 

742 

743 

744 
746 

746 

747 

748 

749 

750 

751 

752 

753 

754 
765 

756 

757 

758 

759 

760 

761 

761 

762 

763 

764 

765 

766 

767 

768 

769 

770 
77.1 

772 

772 

773 

774 

775 

776 

776 

777 

778 

779 

780 

781 

782 

783 


For Another’s Sin, by B. M. Clay. .20 
The Hillyars and Burtons, Kingsley 20 

In Prison and Out, by Stretton 20 

Romance of a Young Girl, \jj Clay.20 

Leighton Court, by Kingsley 20 

Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. .20 
A Queen amongst Women, by Clay.lO 

Vineta, by E. Werner 20 

A Mental Struggle, The Duchess., 20 
Geoffrey Hamlyn, by H. Kingsley. 30 
The Haunted Chamber, ‘'Duchess'MO 

A Golden Dawn, by B. M. Clay 10 

Like no Other Love, by B. M. Clay.lO 
A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay. 20 
Lcrimer and Wife, by Margaret Lce.20 
Social Solutions No. 1, by Howland. 10 
A Woman’s Vengeance, by Holmes, 20 

Evelyn’s Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway..*20 
Beaton’s Bargain, Mrs. Alexander., 20 
Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland. 10 
Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin. ..20 
Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 
Somebody's Story, by Hugh Conway.lO 

King Arthur, by Miss Mulock 20 

Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay.. . .20 
Social Solutions, No. 3, by Howland.lO 
A Modem Midas, by Mauripe Jokai.20 

A Fallen Idol, by F. Anstey 20 

Conspiracy, by Adam Badeau 25 

Doris’ Fortune, by F. Warden. ... 10 
Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray... 10 

Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

Fair Women, by Mrs. FoiTester . . , ,20 
Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

Social Solutions, .No. 4, by Howland.lO 

Moths, by Ouida 20 

A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 
Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 

Vixen, by Miss Brcddon .20 

Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson... 20 
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde, by R. L. Stevenson. 10 
Prince Otto, by R. L. Stevenson.. 10 
The Dynamiter, by R. L. Stevenson. 20 
The Old Mam’selle’s Secret, by E. 

Marlitt 20 

Mysteries of * l)y Siie.20 

Mysteries of Pa^ .. , ^ il,, by Sue.20 

Put Yourself in His^Place, by Reade. 20 
Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 
The Three Guardsmen, byDumas.20 
The Wandering J ew. Part I., by Sue.20 
The Wandering Jew, Part II,,bySue.20 
A Second Life, by Mrs, Alexander.20 
Social Solutions, No. 7, by Howland.lO 
My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris . , 10 
Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart. . . 10 

Betty’s Visions, by Broughton 15 

Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 
The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon.,..10 


■ Any of the above can be obtained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will 
5 icnt free by mail, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

^ Nos. 14 AND 16 Vesey Street, New York- 




marks the women of our households when they undertake to make theil 
homes bright and cheery. Nothing deters them. Their weary work may 
be as long as the word which begins this paragraph, but they prove their 
regard foj? decent homes by their indefatigability. What a pity that any 
of them should add to their toil by neglecting to use Sapolio. It reduce* 
the labor of cleaning and scouring at least one-half. 10c. a cake. Sold by 
ail grocers. 




f 



@D f^EWS 
IS i-APIES. 

Greatest inducements ever of- 
fered. Now’s your time to get up 
orders for our celebrated Teas 
and Coffees, and secure a beauti- 
ful Gold Band orMoss Bose China 
Tea Set, or Handsome Decorated 
Gold Band Moss Rose Dinner Set, or Gold Band Moss 
Decorated Toilet Set. For full particulars address 
_ THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA CO., 

P. O. Box 289. 31 i-nd ^ Vesey St., New York, 


AHEAIt OF ALL. CO MPETITORS. 

The Improvements bein;^ constantly made in “Lorell’s Library,” have placed it in the Front Knnk of 
cheap publications in this country. The publishers propose toptill further improve the series by having 

Better Paper, Better Printing, Larger Type, 

and more attractive cover than any series in the market. 

SZBIE -WSI^T ZS OIF* IT: 

The following extract from a letter recently received shows the appreciation In 
which the Library is held by those who most constantly read it : 

"Mskcantilb Library, Baltimore, August 29, 1R83. 
“Will yon kindly send me two copies of your latest list? I am glad to see that you now issue a volume 
every day. Your Library we find greatly preferable to the ‘Seaside’ and 'Franklin Square’ Series, and even 
better than the I'.'mo. form of the latter, the page being of better shape, the lines better leaded, and the word# 
better spaced. Altogether your series is much more in favor with our subscrihers than either of its rivals. 

S. C. DONALDSON’, Assistant Librarian.” 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., PubSIshers, 14 & 16 Vesey Street, New York. 



WASHING CONIPOONO 

EVER INVENTED. 

|7g Lad^c Harried 
Sing^lesr Bicia or Poor, 
Bousekeepisig or Board** 
ing, will be without it 
after testing its utility* 
Sold by all first-class 
Grocers* but beware 
worthless imitatioiuk 



LOVELL'S LIBRARY, 


IovELii'6 Library now contains the complete writings of most of the best st&ndart 
authors, such as Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, Carlyle, Ituskin, Scott, Lytton, Black, 
etc., etc. 

Each number is issued in neatl2mo form, and the type will be found larger, an^ 
the paper better, than in any other cheap series published. 

Any number in the following list can generally be obtained from r/d booksellers and 
newsdealers, or when it cannot be so obtained, will be sent,/ree hy mail^ on receipt 
Qi i>rice by’ the publishers, 

JOHN W. I.OVEI.r. CO:??EANY, 

14 and 16 Vesey St., New 

P. O, Box 1992. 


CLASSIFIED CATALOGUE BY TITLES. 


Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey, No. 

224 10 

Abbott, The, by Scott, No. 569 20 

A Brighton Night, by Lee, No. 600 20 

A Broken Wedding-Ring, No. 420. . ... .20 
A Cardinal Sin, by -Hugh Conway, No. 

715 ...20 

A Christmas Carol, by Dickens, No, 274.15 
Adam Bede, by Eliot, 2 Parts, No. 66, 

each 15 

A Daughter of Heth, No. 82 20 

AdmiralV. Ward, by Alexander, No. 99.20 
Adrift with a Vengeance, Cornwallis, 

No. 409 25 

Adventurers, The, by Aimard, No. ^»60.10 
Adventures of Philip, by W. M. Thack- 
eray, 2 Parts, No. 235, each 15 

A Fair Device, by Balestier, No. 381. . .SO 
Afloat and Ashore, by Cooper, No. S32.25 
A Girton Girl, Mrs. Edwards, No, 681.. 20 

Airy Fairy Lilian, No. 92 20 

A Legend of the Rhine, No. 285. ...... .10 

Alice, by Lord Lytton, No. 45 20 

Alic^e’s Adventures, by Carroll, No. 480.20 

All in a Garden Fair, No. 257 20 

Altiora Peto, by Oliphant, No. 196 20 

A Maiden All Forlorn, by The Duchess, 

No. 621 10 

A Marriage in High Life, No. 41 20 

Ameline de Bourg, No. 122 15 

American Notes, No. 210 13. 

Amos Barton, by G. Eliot, No, 69 10 

An Adventure in Thule; and Marriage 

of Moira Fergus, No. 40 10 

Andersen’s Fairy Tales, No. 419 20 

A New Lease of Life, No. 118 20 

An Interesting Case, No, 346 20 

An Ishmaelite, by Braddou, No. 444. . .20 
Anne of Geierstein, by Scott, No. 695.. 20 
An Old Man’s Love, by Trollope, No. 

367 15 

An Outline of Irish History, No. 116. . .10 

Antiquary, by Scott, No. 629 20 

Anti-Slavery Days, No. 167 10 

A Passive Crime, by Duchess, No. 624. .10 
A Perilous Secret, by Reade, No. 4l5. .20 
A Princess of Thule, by Black, No. 48.20 
Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, No. 
397 25 


A Rainy June, Ouida, No. 675. 16 

Aratra Pentelici, Ruskiik, No. 647.. - ...15 

Ax'ien, by Robinson, No. 134... 15 

A Real Queen, by Francillou, NcS^19..2Q 

Arne, by Bjornson, No. 4 10 

Art of England, Ruskin, No. 673 15 

Arundel Motto, by M. C. Hay, No. 666.20 

A Sea Queen, by Russell, No. 123 20 

A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing, No. 475 20 

Assignation, and Other Tales, by Poe, 

No. 438 15 

Astori*% by Irving, No, 299 20 

A Strange Story, by Lytton, No. 65 ... 20 
A Summer in Skye, by A, Smith, No. 

694 20 

At a High Price, by E. Werner, No. 614. 2C 
At Baj', by Mrs. Alexander, No. 664. . . .10 

A Tour on the Prairies, No. 805 10 

At Wat with Herself, B. M. Clay, No. 

651 15 

Aunt Margaret’s Mirror, by Scott, No. 

605 10 

Aurora Floyd, by^raddon. No. 555 20 

Aurora Leigh, Mrs. Browning, No. 421.20 
Autobiography of A. Trollope, No. 251.28 
A Week in Killarney, by The Duchess, 

No. 477 IQ 

A Woman’s Honor, by Young, No. 691.28 
A Woman’s Temptation,’ by Clay, No. 

474 2(1 

Aytoun’s Lays of Scottish Cavaliers, 

No. 351 20 

Bailie the Covenanter, etc., Carlyle, No. 

658 15 

Ballads, by Thackeray, No. 306 .15 

Barbara’s Rival, by Young, No. 366 . . 20 
Bamaby Rudge, "2 Parts, No. 150, each 15 

Baron Munchausen, No. 47.. IG 

Barry Lyndon, by Thackeray, No. 164. .2C 

Battle of Life, The, etc., No. 293 1(1 

Beauchampe, by Simms, No. 7(te 30 

Beauty’s Daughters, No. 168 20 

Belinda, by Broughton, No. 2^ 20 

Berber, The, by W. Mayo, No. 7C... - ..20 

Berkeley the Banker, No. 357 20 

Betrothed, by Scott, No. 636 25 

Between Two Sins, by Olay, No, 5^- . .13 
Bpyond Pardon, No. ^7 . >2(1 

Beyond the Sourise, No.‘ r % v * 


1 


LOVELL'S LIBRARY. 


Black Dwarf, by Scott, No. 490 10 

Black Poodle, and Other Tales, No. 453.20 
Bleak Hoxise, 2 Parts. No. 244, each ... .20 
Book of Snobs, Thackeray, No. 220 ... .10 

Border Beagles, Simms, No. 693 30 

Bourbon Lilies, No. 119 20 

Boy at Mugby, The. No. 237 10 

Braeebridge Hall, No. 281 20 


Bravo, The, by J. P. Cooper, No. 524. ..20 
Bride of Lammermoor, by Scott, No. 489.20 
Brierfield Tragedy’, by Redd, No. 408. . .20 
Brother Jacob, and Mr. Gilfil’s Love 

Story, by George Eliot, No. 208.. 10 

Browning’s, Mrs., Poems, No. 479 35 

Browning’s, Robert, Poems, No. 552... 20 

Bryant’s Poems, No. 443. 20 

Burns’ Poems, by Burns, No. 430 20 

Byron, Complete Works of. No. 647 ... 30 

By the Gate of the Sea, No. 197 15 

Called Back, by Hugh Conway, No. 429.15 

Campbell’s Poems, No. 526 20 

Canon’s Ward, Thb. No. 830 20 

Oarrlston’s Gift, by Conway, No. 612 . . 10 

Captain Bonneville, No, 311 .20 

Castle Dangerous, by Scott, No. 492 15 

Cast up by the Sea, No. 206 20 

Catherine, by Thackeray, No. 148 10 

Cavendish Card Essays, No. 422 15 

Caxtons, The, by Lytton, 2 Parts, No. 

250, each 15 

Chain-Bearer, The, by Cooper, No. 676.20 

Character Sketches, etc.. No. 303 10 

Characteristics, etc., Carlyle, No. 652.. 15 

Charlernont, Simms, No. 702 SO 

Charlotte Temple, No. 159 ..10 

Charmed Sea, by Martineau, No. 379. . .15 
Chartism, by Thomas Carlyle, No. 603.20 
Chase, The, by Jules Lermina, No. 469.20 

Childhood of the World, No. 386 lO 

Child Hunters, The, No. 483 15 

Children of the Abbey, by Roche, No. 

411 30 

Child’s History of England, No. 75 .20 

Christmas Books, No. 304. 20 

Christmas Stories, by Farley, No. 473. . .20 
Chronicles of the Canongate, by Scott," 

No. 607..... 15 

Clayton’s Rangers, No. 340 20 

Clytie, by Joseph Hatton, No. 7 20 

Coleridge’s Poem.s No. 623 30 

Coming Race, The, by Lytton, No. 11.. 10 

Companions of Columbus, No. 301 20 

Confession, by Simms, No. 680 30 

Conquest of Grnnada, No. 272 20 

Conquest of Spain, No. 279. 10 

Com Law Rhymes, etc., Carlyle, No. . 

656 15 

Count Cagliostro, oy Carlyle, No. 671 . . 15 
Count Robert of Paris, by Scott, No. 

657 20 

Count of Talavera, No. 468, 20 

Cox’s Diary, etc., No. 286. ! 20 

Crater, The, by Cooper, No. 559 20 

Crayon Papers, The, Irving, No. 249. . ,20 

Cricket on the Hearth, No. 140 10 

Critical Reviews, Thackeray, No. 262.. 10 
Crown of Wild Olive, Ruskin, No. 605. .10 

Cruel London, No. 137 20 

Cryptogram, The, by Verne, No. 36 10 

Dame Durden, by “Rita,” No. 556 20 

Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, No. 195, each. 20 
Dante Rossetti’s Poems, No. 329 20 


Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, and 

Paradise, No. 345 2(! 

Dark Colleen, The, by Jay, No. 17 20 

Dark Days, by Hugh Conway, N«. 462.15 
David Copperfield, 2 Parts, No. 158, 

each 20 

Dead Sea Fruit, by Braddon, No. 596.. 20 

Dean’s Daughter, The, No. 89 20 

Deep Down, No. 241 20 

Deerslayer, by J. F. Cooper, No. 463.. . 30 

Denis Duval, No. 143 10 

Deucalion, by Ru.skin, No. 670 16 

Devereux, by Lytton, No. 247 2> 

Diamond Necklace ; and Mirabeau, by 

Carlyle, No. 500 18 

Dick’s Sweetheart, by Duchess, No. 618 .20 
Disarmed, by M. Betham-Edwards, No, 

203.... 15 

Disowned, by L 3 d;ton, No. 222 20 

Divorce, by Margaret Lee, No. 25 '. 20 

Dombey and Son, 2 Parts, No. 219, 

each 20 

Don Quixote, No. 417 30 

Dora Thorne, byB. M. Clay, No. 277... 20 

Doris, by The Duchess, No. 451 20 

Dorothy Forster, by Besant, No. 384. ..20 

Dr. Francia, etc., Carlyle, No. 661 15 

Dry den’ 8 Poems, No. 498 30 

Duke of Kandos, by Mathey, No. 46.. .20 

Dunallan, 2 Parts, No. 1G6, each 15 

Eagle’s Nest, by Ruskin, No. 676 15 

Earl’s Atonement, by Bertha M. Clay, 

No. 46.5 .20 

Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, No. 

60, each 20 

Early Days of Norway, No. 514 20 

Eastern Sketches, No. 256 10 

East Lynne, by Mrs. Wood, No. 54 20 

Eight "years’ Wandering in Ceylon, No. 

2;33 20 

Elbow Room, by Max Adder, No. 3^.. 20 

English Humorists, No. 313 15 

Erling the Bold, No. 239 20 

Ernest Maltravers, No. 31 .20 

Essaj's, by George Eliot, No. 374. 20 

Essays, by R. W. Emerson, No. 373. . . .20 
Ethics of the Dust, Ruskin, No. 510. . . 10 

Eugene Aram, by Lytton, No. 204 20 

Etrtaw% by W. G. Simms, No. 703 SO 

Every-Day Cook-Book, No. 332 20 

Evolution, by Rev. C. F. Deems, No. 

704 ....20 

Executor, The, No. 209 .20 

Eyre’s Acquittal, by Mathers, No. 165.. IG 
Fair but False, by B. M. Clay, No. 658.10 
Fair Maid of Perth, by Scott, No. 638.. 20 

Faith and Unfaith, No. 162 20 

False Hopes, by Goldwin Smith, No. 

110 15 

Famous Funny Fellows, No. 291 20 

Fatal Boots, etc., No. 262 .10 

Felix Holt, by G. Eliot, No. 151 20 

Fettered for Life, by Blake, No. 697.. . .25 

File No. 113, by Gaboriau, No. 268. 20 

Fire Brigade, The, No. 226 20 

Fitzboodle Papers, etc. No. 280 ...10 

Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe, No. 22...2(J 
Flower of Doom, The, M. Betham-Ed- 
wards, No. 663 10 

For Each and For All, No. 363 15 

For Lilias, by Rosa N. Carey, No. 660 . . 2C 
Forayers, The, Simms, No, 697 3(1 


LOVELL^S LIBRARY. 


Forbidden Fruit, No. G06 20 

Fors Olavigera, Ruskin,Vol. I., No,707..30 
Fors Clavigera, Ruskin, Vol. II., No. 

708 30 

Fora Clavigera, Ruskin, Vol. III., No. 

713 30 

Fora C'avigera, Ruskin, Vol. IV., No. 

14 30 

FoiImUGS of Nigel, by Scott, No. 604. ...20 
Four Georges, by Thackeray, No. 264. .10 

Pour MacNicols, The, No. 217 10 

Frankenstein, by Mrs. Shelley, No. 6.. 10 

Freckles, by R. F, Redd, No. 16 20 

Frederick the Great, Vol. I., No. 678. . .20 
Frederick the Great, Vol. II., No, 680.20 
Frederick the Great, Vol. III., No. 691.20 
Frederick the Great, Vol. IV., No. 

, 610 20 

Frederick the Great, Vol. V., No. 619. .20 
Frederick the Great, Vol. VI., No. 622.20 

Frederick the Great, VII., No. 626 20 

Frederick the Great, VIII., No. 628 20 

Galaski, by G. M. Bayne, No. 460 ... .20 

Gautran, by B. L. Farjeon. No. 243 20 

German Literature, by Carlyle, No. 650.15 
Giant’s Robe, by F. Anstey, No. 394. ..20 
Gideon Fleyce, by H. Lucy, No. 96..,. 20 

Godolphin, by Lytton, No. 289 20 

Goethe, etc., by Carlyle, No. 622 10 

Goethe’s Faust, No. 342 20 

Goethe’s Poems, No. 343,. 20 

Gold Bug, and Other Tales, by Poe, No. 

432 15 

Golden Calf, The, by Braddon, No. 88.20 
Golden Dog, The, by F. Kirby, No. 464.40 

Golden Girls, by A. Muir, No. 312 20 

Golden Shaft, The, by Gibbon, No. 57.20 
Goldsmith"*s Plays and Poems, No. 362.20 

Glen of the Echoes, No. 400 15 

Grandfather Lickshingle, No. 360 20 

Grandfather’s Chaii* by Hawthorne, 

No. 376 20 

Great Expectations, No. 192 20 

Great Hoggarty Diamond, No. 316, ... 10 

Green Mountain Boys, No. 21 20 

Green Pastures, etc., No. 184 20 

Grimm’s Fairy Tales, No. 221 20 

Gulliver’s Travels, No. 68 20 

Guy Mannering, by Scott, No. 620 20 

Guy Rivers, by Simms, No. 690 30 

Gypsy Queen, The, No. 98 20 

Happy Boy, The, by Bjornson, No, 3.. 10 
Happy Man, The, by Lover, No. 163.. .10 

Hard Times, No. 170 20 

Harold, 2 Parts, No. 276. each 15 

Harry Holbrooke, No. 101 20 

Harry Lorrequer, No. 327 20 

Haunted Hearts, No. 125 .16 

Haunted House, The, etc., No. 32 10 

Headsman, The, by Cooper, No. 619. .. .20 

Heart and Science, No. 87 20 

Heart of Mid-Lothian, by Scott, No. 

499 30 

Hoidenmaur, by Cooper, No. 617 20 

Hemans’, Mrs., Poems, No. 583 30 

Henry Esmond, No. 141 20 

Her Mother’s Sin, No. 183 20 

Her Martyrdom, B. I'. Clay, No. 689. . .20 

Hermits, The, No. 3i 20 

Heroes, and Hero-Worship, No. 641 20 

Hilda, by B. M. Clay, No. 669 10 

Hill and Valley, by Martineau, No. 372.16 


History of the French Revolution, 2 
Pts., by Carlyle, No. 486, each... 25 

History of the Mormons, No. 440 16 

Home as Found, by Cooper, No. 441. ,..20 

Homer’s Iliad, by Pope, No. 396 30 

ilomer’s Odyssey, by Pope, No. 391 20 

Homes Abroad, No. 358 15 

Home Scenes, by Arthur, No. 546 15 

Homeward Bound, by Cooper, No. 378.20 

Hood’s Poems, No. 511 30 

Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, No. 67, 

each Ifi 

Housekeeping and Homeinaking, No. 

107 15 

IIow He Reached the White House, No. 

402 25 

How It All Came Rou^d, No. 328 20 

Hygiene of the Brain, No. 356 26 

Hypatia, 2 Parts, No, 64, each 16 

Hyperion, by Longfellow, No. 1 20 

“ I Say No,” by Wilkie Collins, No. 418.20 

In Cupid’s Net, B. M. Clay, No. 700 10 

India and Ceylon, No. 97 20 

Indian Song of Songs, No. 472 10 

India ; What can It Teach Us ? No. 130.20 

In l^urance Vile, by The Duchess 10 

In Peril of His Life, No. 129 20 

In Silk Attire, by Black, No. 1^ 20 

Integral Co-operation, by A. K. Owen, 

No, 655.. 30 

lone Stewart, by Linton, No. 275 20 

Irene, by Carl Detlef, No. 29 20 

Irish Sketches, etc., Thackeray, No. 292.20 

Ivanhoe, 2 Parts, No 145, each 18 

Jack, by A. Daudet, No. 613 20 

Jack Tier, by Cooper, No. 611 20 

Jane Eyre, by Bront6, No. 74. 20 

Janet’s Repentance, No. 149 10 

Jean Paul Friedrich Richter, No. 620, .10 
Jets and Flashes, by Lukens, No. 131. .20 
John Bull and His Daughters, No. 459.20 

John Bull and His Island, No. 336 20 

John Halifax, by Muiock, No. 33 20 

John Holdsworth, by Russell, No. 399.20 

John Sterling, by Carlyle, No. 630 20 

Judith Shakespeare, by Wm. Black, 

No. 456 20 

Katherine Walton, by Simnis, No. 657.30 

Keats’ Poems, No. 631 26 

Kenelm Chillingly, No. 240 20 

Kenilworth, by Scott, No. 625 25 

Kilmeny, by Wm. Black, No. ISO 2C 

King of the Golden River, No. 598 10 

Knickerbocker History of New York, 

No. 236 .,..20 

L’Abb6 Constantin, No. 15 20 

Labor and Capital, No. Ill 20 

Ladies Lindores, The, No. 124 20 

Lady Audley’s Secret, No. 104 20 

Lady Darner’s Secret, Clay, No 701 . - 20 
Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart, No. 216. . 10 

Lady of Lyons, No. 121 10 

Lady of the Lake, with Notes, No. 369.20 

Lalla Rookh, by T. Moore, No. 415 20 

Land Question, by George, No. 890 10 

Last Days of Pompeii, No, 59 20 

Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, No, 255, 

each 15 

Last of the Mohicans, The, No. 6 20 

Latter-Day Pamphlets, No. 633 20 

Layte of Ancient Rome, No. 883 20 

■ Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, No. 351.20 


LOVELL'S LIBRARY. 


Lectures on Architeuiure and Painting, 

by Raskin, No. 537 15 

Lectures on Art, Ruskin, No. 644 15 

Legend of Montrose, by Scott, No. 493.15 

Leila, by Lord Lytton, No. 12 10 

Lessons in Life, by Arthur, No. 679 15 

Let Nothing You Dismay, No. 103 10 

Letters from High Latitudes, No. 95.. .20 
Life and Voyages of Columbus, 2 Parts, 

No. liW, each 20 

iiJe in the Wilds, No. 388 15 

Ufe of J. G. Blaine, No, 406 20 

Life of Bunyan, No. 348 10 

Life of Burke, by John Morley, No. 

407 ; 10 

Life of Burns, by Shairp, No. 334 10 

Life of Byron, No. 347 10 

Life of Chaucei’, by Ward, No. 413 10 

Life of Cowper, by Smith, No. 424 10 

Life of Cromwell, No. 73 16 

Life of Cromwell, Carlyle, Vo!- T.. No. 

643 25 

Life of Cromwell, Carlyle, Vol. II., No. 

646 25 

Life of Cromwell, Carlyle, Vol. III., No. 

649 25 

Life of Defoe, by Minto, No. 377 10 

Life of Predrika Bremer, No. 448 20 

Life of Gibbon, by Morison, No. 383 . . .10 

Life of Grover Cleveland, No. 427 20 

Life of Heyne, by Carlyle, No. 525 15 

Life of Hume, No. 369 *.10 

Life of Johnson, by Stephen, No. 401.. 10 

Life of Paul Jones, No. 323 20 

Life of Locke, by Fowler, No. 380 10 

Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, No. 308, each.15 

Life of Marion, No. 36 20 

Life of Milton, by Pattison, No. 392. ...10 

Life of Oliver Goldsmith, No, 310 20 

Life of Pope, No. 398 10 

Life of Schiller, by Carlyle, No. 636. . , .20 

Life of Scott, by Hutton, No. 364 10 

Life of Shelley, by Symonds, No. 361.. 10 
Life of Southey, by Dowden, No. 404.. 10 

Life of Spenser, No. 431 10 

Life of Thackeray, No, 344 10 

Life of Washington, No. 26 20 

Life of Webster, 2 Parts, No. 248, each. 16 

Life of Wordsworth, No. 410 19 

Light of Asia, by Arnold, No. 436 20 

Like Dian’s Kiss, by “Rita,” No. 699.. 20 

Lionel Lincoln, by Cooper, No. 527 20 

Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, No. 223, each... 20 

Little Pilgrim, The, No. 179 10 

Longfellow's Poems, No. 482 20 

Lovel, the Widower, No. 156 10 

Love’s Meinie, by Ruskin, No. 688 15 

Loys, Lord Beresford, No, 126 20 

Loom and Lugger, No. 354 20 

Lord Lvnne’s Choice, Clay, No. 692.... 10 
Love Works Wonders, b 3 ' B. M. Clay, 

No. 476 20 

Love's Harvest, Farjeon, No. 654 20 

Lucile, by Meredith. No. 331 20 

Lucretia, by Lytton, No. 253 20 

Luck of the Darrells, Payn, No. 659. ...20 

Macleod of Dare, No. 93 20 

Madcap Violet, No. 178 20 

Maid of Athens, No, 278 20 

Margaret and her Bridesmaids, No. 66 20 

Mark Seaworth, No, 322 20 

Married Life, by T. S. Arthur, No. 518.15 


Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parts, No. 201, 

each 20 

Master Humphrey’s Clock, No. 261 10 

Master of the Mine, Buchanan, No,696.10 

Mellicharape, by Simms, No. 648 30 

Men’s Wives, No. 296, 10 

Men, Women, and Lovers, by Simcox, 

No. 513 2C 

Mercedes of Castile, by Cooper, No. 648.20 
Middlemarch, 2 Parts, No. 174, each.. .20 

Midshipman, The, No. 338 20 

Miles Wallingford, by Cooper, No. 539. .20 
Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, No. 207, each, 15 
Miss Tommy, by Miss Mulock, No. 436.16 


Mistletoe Bough, Braddon, No. 698.. . .20 
Modern Christianity a Civilized Hea- 
thenism, No. 360 16 


Modern Painters, Vol. L, No. 665 20 

Modern Painters, Vol. II., No. 572. . . ..20 
Modem Painters, Vol. III., No, 577..., 20 
Modern Painters, Vol. IV., No. 689 ... .25 

Modern Painters, Vol. V., No. 608 26 

Molly Bawn, No, 76 20 

Monarch of Mincing Lane, No. 232. . . .20 

Monastery, by Scotr, No. 609....*, 20 

Money, by Lord Lytton, No. 128 1(? 

Monica, by The Duchess, No. 86 10 

Monikins, The, by Cooper, No. 543. . . .28 


Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, No. 114, each.20 
Moonshine and Marguerites, No. 132. ..10 
Moonstone, The, 2 Parts, Nos. 8 and 9, 


each ,10 

Moore’s Poems, No. 487 40 

Moorish C' .ronicle 8, No. 314 10 


More Leaves from a Life in the High- 
lands, by Queen Victoria, No. 355,16 
More Words about the Bible, No. 113.. 20 
Mornings in Florence, Ruskin, No. 665.15 
Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., No. 218.. .10 
Mr. Scarborough’s Family, 2 Parts, No. 


133, each 15 

Mrs. Darling’s Letters, No. 260 20 

Mrs. Geoffrey, No. 90 20 

Mudfog Papers, The, etc., No. 270 10 

Munera Pulvoris, by Ruskin, No. 627... 15 
Murders in the Rue Morgue, by Poe, No, 

447 ....16 

Mysterious Island, 3 Pts., No. 185, ca...l5 

Mystery of Orcival, No. 155 .20 

Mystery of Edwin Drood, No. 297 20 

Mystic London, by Davies, No, 452 20 

My Lady’s Money, Wilkie Collins, No. 

686 10 

My Novel, 3 Parts, No. 271, each 20 

My Roses, by L. V. French, No. 485.,.. 20 

Nabob, The, by A. Daudet, No. 645 25 

Narrative of A. Gordon Pym, No, 426, .15 

Nautz Family, No. 191 20 

New Abelard, The, No. 318 20 

Newcoraes, The, 2 Parts, No. 211, each.20 
New Magdalen, by Callins, No. 24 . ... .20 
Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, No. 231, 

each. 20 

Night and Morning, 2 Parts, No. 84, 

each 15 

Nimport, No. 100, 2 Parts, each 15 

Noctes Ambrosianae, by C, North, No. 

439 : 30 

No New Thing, No. 108 20 

No Thoroughfare, No. 302 .10 

Nc. 99, by Arthur Griffiths, No. 706 10 

Novels by Eminent Hands, No. 300 10 


LOVELL^ 8 LIBn^^ilY. 


Oftk Openings, by Cooper, No, 502 20 

Off-Hand Sketches, by Arthur, No. 582.15 
Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Farts, No. 144, 

each, 15 

Old Lady Mary, by Oliphaiit, No. 868.. 10 

Old Mortality, by Scott, No. 641 20 

Old Myddleton’s Money, by Hay, No. 

590 20 

Oliver Goldsmith, by Black, No. 225.... 10 
Oliver’s Bride, by Oliphant, No. 602. . . .10 

Oliver Twist, by Dickens, No. 10 20 

One False, Both Fair, No. 269 20 

Other People’s Money, No. 120 20 

/*Our Fathers Have Told Us,’' Kuskin, 

1 No. 679 15 

V)ar Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, No. 228, 

each 20 

Outre-Mer, by Longfellow, No. 2 20 

Over the Summer Sea, No. 414 20 

Papa’s Own Girl, by Marie Howland, No. 

534 80 

Paradise Lost, by Milton, No. 389 20 

Paris Sketches, No. 229 15 

Parisians, The, 2 Parts, No. 259, each. 20 

Partisan, The, by Simms, No. 640 ■ 30 

Past and Present, No. 494 20 

Pathfinder, The, by Cooper, No. 365..,. 20 

Paul and Virginia, No. 37 10 

Paul Clifford, by Lytton, No. 117 20 

Paul Vargas, by Conway^ No. 617 10 

Pausanias, by Lytton, No. 317 15 

Pear^ of the Andes, by Aimard, No. 
6'73 10 


Pearls ot the Faith, No. 455 15 

Pelham, by Lord Lytton, No. 176 20 

Pendennis, 2 Part-s, No. 193, each 20 

Peter the Whaler, No. 254 20 

Peveril of the Peak, by Scett^ No. 609. .80 

Phantom Fortune, No. 214 .20 

Phyllis, by The Duchess, No. 78- 20 

Picciola, by Saintine, No. 710 . . 10 

Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, No. 91, each -20 

Pictures from Italy. No. ^34 If 

Pike County Folks, by Mott, No. 139. . .20 

Pilgrims of the Rhine, No. 294 15 

Pilgi-im’s Progress, The, No, 200 20 

Pillone, by W. Bergsoe, No. 77 15 

Pilot, by J. Fenimore Cooper, No. 501 . . 20 

Pioneer, by J. F. Cooper, No. 471 25 

Pirate, by Sir Walter Scott, No. 615. . . .20 

Pleasures of England, No. 639 10 

Plutarch’s Lives, 6 Parts, No. ^5, each.20 

Poe’s Poems, No. 403 20 

Pole on^Whist, No. 406 15 

Pope’s Poems, No. 457 30 

Portia, by The Duchess, No. 58 ..20 

Portraits of John Knox, No. 561. 15 

Prairie, by J. F. Cooper, No. 467 20 

Precaution, by Cooper, No. 601 20 

Princes^s Napraxine, by Ouida, No. 387.26 
Principles and Fallacies of Socialism, 

No. 533 15 

iPrlvateorsman, The, No. 212 20 

Procter’s Poems, No, 339 20 

Progress and Poverty, No. 62 20 

Promise of Marriage, No. 161 10 

Proserpina, by Raskin, No. 682 16 

Queen of the Air, by Ruskln, No, 516 . . 1'. 

Queen of the County, No. 72 20 

Quentin Durward, by Scott, No. B75. ,.20 


Quiaisana, by F. Speilhagen, No. 449.. 29 
Itondom Shots, by Max Adeler, No, 295.20 


Ravsselas, by Dr. Johnson, No. 44.... *.lfl 

Red Eric, The, No. 215 20 

Redgauntlet, by Scott, No. 544 25 

Redskins, by Cooper, No. 603 20 

Red Rover, by J. F. Cooper, No. 491 ... 20 

Repented at Leisure, No. 42^3 20 

Reprinted Pieces. No. 298 20 

Richard Hurdis, by Simrns, No, 687. . . .30 
Richelieu, by Lord Lytton, No. 152.... 10 

Rienzi, 2 Parts, No. 160, each 15 

Rifle and Hound in Ceylon, No. 227. . . .20 
Right and Wrong Uses of the Bible, 

No. as 20 

Rival Doctors, by La Pointe, No. 445. . .2C 

Robin, by Mrs. Parr, No. 42 20 

Robinson Crusoe, by Defoe, No. 4^. . . .25 

Rob Roy, by Scott, No. 632 20 

Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid, by 

T. Hardy, No. 157 10 

Romola, 2 Parts, No. 79, each 15 

Rose and the Ring, The, No. 320 10 

Rossmoyne, by The Duchess, No. ^4.. 20 

Roundabout Papers, No. 2a3 

Round the World, No. 324 20 

Salmagundi, by Irving, No. 290 20 

Salt Water, No. 337 20 

Samuel Brohl & Co., No. 242 20 

Sartor Resartus, by Carlyle, No. 508.... 2U 

Satanstoe, by Cooper, No. 570 20 

Schiller’s Poems, No. 341 ?0 

Science at Home, by Nichols, No. 375.. 20 

Science in Short Chapters, No. 80 20 

Scottish Chiefs, 2 Parts, by Jane Porter, 

No. 189, each 20 

Scott’s Poetical Works, No. 536 80 

Scout, The, by Simms, No, 671 30 

Sea Lions, The, by Cooper, No. 553 ... .20 

Second Thoughts, No. ^3 20 

Secret Despatch, The, No. 49 20 

Seed-Time and Harvest, No. 563 15 

Seekers After God, No. 19 20 

Self-Help, by Samuel Smiles, No. 4%.. 25 

Self or Bearer, Besant, No. 699 10 

Selma, by Mrs. Smith, No, 65, 15 

Sergeant’s Legacy, The, No. 366 20 

Sesame and Lilies, by Ruskiii, No. 497.10 
Seven Lamps of Architecture, No. 521. ,20 

Shadow of a Sin, by Clay, No. 694 10 

Shandon Bells, by Black, No. 85 20 

Shelley, Complete Works of, No. 649, . . 30 

Sidonie, by A. Daudet, No. 604 2U 

Signs of the Time^ by Carlyle, No. 6^.1B 

Silas Marner, by (T. Eliot, No. 71 10 

Singleheart and Doubleface, No. 28 ... .10 

Sir Tom, by Mrs. Oliphant, No. 175 20 

Sketch-Book, The, No. 147 20 

Sketches and Travels in London, No. 

309 10 

Sketches by Boz, No, 273 20 

Sketches of Young Couples, No. 246 10 

Slings and Arrows, Hugh Conway, No. 

672 10 

Socialism, No. 461 10 

Social Etiquette, No. 27 Ifj 

Social Problems, by George, No. 393.. .201 

Sowers not Reapers, No. 395 15 

Somebody’s Luggage, etc., No. 288 10 

Southward Ho ! by Simms, No. 662. . . .30 
Spanish Gypsy, and others, No. 205. . . .20 

Spanish Nun, The, No. 20 10 

Spanish Voyage, by Irving, No. 301.... SO 
Spoopendyke Papers, The, No, X09 SO 


LOVELxj^S LIBRAllT. 


Bpy, Thf*, by Cooper, No. 63 20 

St. Mark’s Rest, Rpskin, No. 668 15 

Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., No. 542, ea. , .25 
Stories for Parents, by Arthur, No. 554.15 
Stories for Young Housekeepers, by 

Arthur No. 674 15 

Story of a Sculpture, Hugh Conway, 

No. 667 10 

Story of Chinese Gordon, The, No. 371.20 

Story of Ida, The, No. 177 10 

Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, by 

William Black, No. 142 20 

St. Honan’s Well, by Scott, No. 586.... 20 

Studies in Civil Service, No. 635 15 

Swinburne’s Poems, No. 412 20 

Sunrise, by Black, 2 Parts, No. 153, 

each 15 

Sunshine and Roses, by Clay, No. 468.. 20 
Surgeon’s Daughter, by Scott, No. 495.. 10 

Swiss Family Robinson, No. 385 20 

Taine’s English Literature, No. 442. . . .40 

Tale of Two Cities, No. 38 20 

Tales of a Traveller, No. 198 ... ,20 

Tales of the French Revolution, by Mar- 

tineau, No. 853 16 

Tales of Two Idle Apprentices, No. 487. 16 
Talisman, The, by Scott, No. 581..*,. ..20 

Tartarin of Tarascon, No. 478 20 

Tempest Tossed, 2 Pari«, No. 94, each.. 20 
Tennyson’s Complete Poems, No. 446., 40 
Thaddeus of Warsaw, by Jane Porter, 

No. 382 ^.25 

That Beautiful Wretch, No. 182 20 

The Ghost’s Touch, by Wilkie Collins, 

No. 683 10 

The Gilded Clique, No. 138 20 

The Lerouge Case, No. 116 20 

The Little Good-for-Nothing, No. 615.. 20 

Theophrastus Such, No. 202 10 

Theory of Whist, by Pole, No. 406 15 

The Two Duchesses, No. 60 20 

They were Married, No. 18 10 

Thicker than Water, No. 187 20 

Three Feathers, The, No. 213 20 

Three Spaniards, The, No. 13 20 

Through the Looking-Glass, No, 481.. .20 

Time and Tide, Ruskln, No. 650 15 

Tinted Venus, by Anstey, No. 616 15 

Tom Brown at Oxford, by Thomas 
Hughes, 2 Parts, No. 186, each.. 15 

Tom Brown’s School-Days, No. 61 20 

Tom Cringle’s Log, No. 171 .30 

Tour of the World in Eighty Days, by 

Jules Verne, No, 164 20 

Tower of Percemont, No. 136 ^20 

Trail-Hunter, The, by Aimard, No. 567.10 
Tricks of the Greeks Unveiled, No. 14. .20 
Tried and Tempted, by Arthur, No. 

6S5 16 

Tritons, 2 Pai’ts, No. 102, each 35 

Twice-Told Tales, No. 370 20 

Two Admirals, by Cooper, No. 484,... 20 
Two on a Tower, by Hardy, No. 43 ... .20 

Two Paths, by Ruskin, No. 642 20 

Two Wires, by T» S. Arthur, No. 607, .15 


Two Tears Before the Mast, No. 464. . .20 

Typhaines Abbey, No. 484 25 

Uncommercial Traveller, No. 282 20 

Underground Russia, No. 173 M 

Under Two Flags, 2 Pts., No. 127, ea...20 

Under the Rod Flag, No, 266 10 

Under the Will, by Mary Cecil Hay, No. 

466 10 

Undine, by Baron dc la Motte Fouque, 

No. 711 10 

Unto this Last, by Ruakin, No. 623. . . .10 

Val d’Arno, by Ruskin, No. 6S5 iff 

Valerie’s Fate, No. 349 ..10 

Vanity Fair, No. 172 SQ 

Vasconsclos, by Simms, No. 677 30 

Vendetta, The, by Balzac, No. 63 20 

Vic, by A. Bentimo, No. 470 15 

Vicar of Wakefield, No. 61 10 

Vice Versii, by An 8 te 3 % No. 80. ....... 20 

Virgil, Works of, No. 540 ’ 25 

Virginians, The, 2 Parts, No. 238, 

each 20 

Voltaire and Novalis, No. 528 16 

Wanda, 2 Parts, No. 112, each IS 

Water Witch, by Cooper, No. 488 20 

Ways of Providence, by Arthur, No. 538.16 
Ways of the Hour, by Coopw, No. 681.20 
Wedded and Parted, B.M. Clay, No. 695.10 

Wept of Wish-ton- Wish, No. 629 20 

What Will He Do With It? by Lytton, 

2 Parts, No. 245, each 20 

When the Ship Cornea Home, No. 268.10 

Whist, or Bumblepuppy ? No. 181 10 

White Heather, by Wm. Black, No. 67,820 

White Wings, by Black, No. 146 20 

Whittier’s Poems, No. 460 20 

Widow Bedott Papers, No. 194 20 

Wigwam and Cabin, by Simms, No. 674.30 

Willis’ Poems, No. a52 20 

Willy Reilly, by Carleton, No. 190 20 

Wing and Wing, by Cooper, No. 506 20 

Winifred Power, No. 315 90 

Wise Women of Inverness, No, 684 1#“ 

Wizard’s Son, The, No. 326 2 

Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies, No. 

321 10 

Woman, by August Bebel, No. 712 30 

Woman against Woman, by Mrs.Holmes, . 

No. 709 .20 

Woman’s Place To-Day, No. 105 20 

Woman’s Trials, by Arthur. No. 606 20 

Woodcraft, by Simms, No, 684 30 

Woodstock, by Sir Walter Scott, No. 551.20 
Wooing O’t, The, 2 Parts, No. 62, each.15 
Words for the Wise, by Arthur, No. 668.16 

Wrecks in the Sea of Life, No, 433 20 

Wyandotte, by Cooper, No. 612 .20 

Yellowplush Papers, No. 307 10 

Yemassee, The, by Simms, No. 653 30 

Tolande, by Wm. Black, No. 186 20 

Young Foresters, The, No. 335 5H) 

Zanoni, by Lytton, No. 81 20 

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, No. 166.20 
600 Leagues on the Amazon, No. 34 ... 10 


liEIOENTrXjY FXJBIjISHEID 


) 


Attractive new editions of the following celebrated works of Sir Sdward 
Baiwer, Lord Lytton, 

By LORD LYTTON. 

1 vol., 12mo., large type, good paper, well bound, cloth, gilt, $1.00; also in 
Lovell’s Library, handsome paper cover, 20 cents. 

'Riis work is happily conceived and ably executed. It is flowing and grace- 
ful in style and both piques and rewards the curiosity of the reader. 


THE COMING RACE; 

Orj THE NEW UTOPIA. 

By LORD LYTTON. 

1 vol., 12mo., large, clear type, good paper, attractive cover, 10 cents. 

Without deciding on the comparative share of imagination and memory in 
the concoction of the work, we may pronounce it one of the most attractive 
books of the many interesting volumes of this popular aut^'cr. 


A STRANGE STORY: 

By LORD LYTTON. 

1 vol., 12mo., cloth, gilt, $1.00; also in Lovell's Library, handsome cover,- 
20 cents. 

The plot shows discrimination of judgment as well as force of expression, 
and its vigor of conception and brilliancy of description makes it one of nis 
most readable novels. 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE; 

Ob, Thb House and the Brain, to which is added, Calderon, the 

Courtier. 

By LORD LYTTON. 

1 vol., 12mo., large type, good paper, handsome cover, 10 cents. 

This is a weird imaginative creation of singular power, showing Intensity of 
conception and a knowledge of the remarkable effects of spiritual influences. 
Full Dascriptive Catalogue sent on application. 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 dc 16 Vesey Street, New ITork. 


“ The enduring ?nonuments 

of Feni 77 iore Cooper are his 

works. While the love of country continues to prevail., his 
memory will exist' in the hearts of the people. So truly 
patriotic and Ainerican throughout, they should find a place 

in every A 77 ierican! s library.'"— 

-Daniel Webster. 

COOPER’S NOVELS. 

LIBRARY 

EDITION. 

Well printed from new plates on good paper. Com- * 

plete in 32 volumes, »i2mo. Price per volume, 
paper, 20 cents ; cloth, 35 cents. 

1. The Spy. ' 

17. Wing-and-Wing. 

2. The Pilot. 

18. Oak Openings. 

3. The Red Rover. 

19. Sataustoe. 

4. The Deerslayer, 25 cents. 

20. The Chain-Bearer. 

5. The Pathfinder. 

21. The Red-Skins, 25 cents. 

6. The Last of the Mohicans. 

22. The Crater. 

7. The Pioneers. 

23. Homeward Bound. 

8. The Prarie. 

24. Home as Found. 

9. Lionel Lincoln. 

25. Heidenmauer. 

10. Wept of Wish-ton- Wish. 

26. The Headsman. 

11. The Water-Witch. 

27. Jack Tier. 

1 2. The Bravo. 

28. The Sea-Lions. > 

13. Mercedes of Castile. 

29. Wyandotte. 

14. The Two Admirals. 

30. The Monikins. 

15. Afloat and Ashore. 

31. Precaution. 

16. Miles Wallingford. 

32. Ways of the Hour. 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 & 16 Vesey Sireet, New York. 

■ 


A QUAINT LITERARY CREATION ! 


GRANDFATHER LICKSeiNGLE 


And Other Sketches. 

By R. W. CRISWELL, of the Cincinnati Enqnirer, 
Author of “ The New Shakespeare” and Other Travesties. 

A YOLUME OF GENUINE HUMOR ! 

1 voL, 12mo., cloth, gilt, - - _ - - - $1.00 

1 “ “ paper, - . ' - - - - .50 

Also in Lovell’s Library, 1 vol. . . _ - .20 


“ Has made a wide reputation as a humorist.” — Brooklyn Eagle, 

“ One of the acknowledged humorists of the day.” — N, Y, Mail 
and Express. ' • 

“ Has acquired a national fame.” — Utica Observer, 

“His humor is as natural as sunlight.” — Robt. J. Burdette. 

“ Won a national reputation.” — Pittsburgh Commercial Gazette^ 

“ One of the brightest writers of the day.” — Burlington Haukeye. 

“ Has taken and held a place in the front rank.” — N. T. Truth. 

“There has been no brighter writer on the American press in 
the past fifteen’ years.” — Elmira Advertiser. 

“ Mr. Criswell’s writings are thoroughly original.” — Bloomington 
Eye. 

“ A reputation enjoyed by few of his age.” — Bradford Star. 

“His humor is quaint and scholarly.” — Cincinnati Catholic 
Telegraph. 

“ He imitates nobody.” — New York Sun, 

“Has made a world-wide reputation.” — Louisville Courier- 
Journal, 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 & 16 Vesey St., New York, 


The brightest and gayest bit of Romance since One 
Summer J"* — Syracuse Standard. 



A FAIR DEVICE. 

By ‘WOLCOTT BALESTIEB, 

Author of the powerful story “A Victorious Defeat," now running a 
successful course in TiO-BUs, and of “A Potent Philter," gen- 
erally remembered as one of the cleverest recent 
American serials published in the New 
TorJc Tribune. 


The Critic : — “ We are glad to Rave read ii for one delicious scene 
quite worthy of Howell’s. ” 

Says a competent critic : 

“ A more delightful novelette than this may appear this summer, 
but we doubt it. It has several merits, not the least of which is 
its originality. There are, practically, only three characters in the 
story, and they prove abundant for the interest. While the reader, 
who cares more for the plot and its development than anything 
else, may be thoroughly entertained in the perusal, those who keep 
the author in mind must be surprised at the prolific imaginative 
resources that supply him with charming metaphors, similes, and 
comparisons, entirely out of the ordinary, and so gracefully set 
down in good rhetoric as to make almost every page a treasure trove 
in itself. These gems brighten up the story most wonderfully, 
though it is never dull or commonplace.” 

Rochester Herald : — ‘ ‘ Entirely worthy of an honorable place among 
the productions of contemporary American novelists and affords as- 
surance of greater stories from the same pen. ” 


Lovell’s Library, Paper, 20 cts. ; cloth, 35 cts. 

Free by mail on receipt of price. 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 14 & 16 Vesey Street, New York. 


OTTR ROMAU PALACE 


HILDA AND I. 



BY K. BBDEIvIv BE;NJ-A.NIIN. 


One Volume f 12mo.^ Paper, 20 cts,^ Cloth, 35 cts. 


Opinions of the Press. 


“ One of tlie most charming of recent novels .” — Philadelphia Item. 

“It is refined In tone, and will doubtless find many readers to welcome 
it.”— iVeio York Daily Graphic. 

“The story is worth the reading, and Hilda is a character that must excite 
(sympathy and admiration, especially of the S. P. C. K."— Philadelphia Eve- 
ning Bulletin. 

“ A love story of the better class ; the tone is elevating and refined, and 
reading it is like living with nice people, and enjoying their pleasures and 
social life. It is one of the most fascinating novels we have seen for a long 
time. A real ixesA."— Portland Argus. 

“ What shall we say of a book in which is not one love story alone, but in 
which three full-fledged ones are concentered ? The author writes not only 
entertainingly, but she Interweaves much that is excellent in tone and com- 
mendable in precept and example.”— Troi/ Whig. 

“ It is pure in tone, refined in sentiment, and with a movement sufficiently 
rapid to keep the reader interested to the very end. Some conversations on 
music show that the author understands the divine art .” — New York Evening 
Mail. 

“ ‘ Hilda and I ’ is a rest to the weary after the turbulence of recent un- 
limited folios of tragedy. It is a rich feast of pleasantness in all possible 
directions. Music, art and all charming things rise up before one in the right 
place and at the proper moment.”— A>to York Home Journal. 

“ Fresh and breezy as sea air ; full of originality in plot and incident, with 
well-drawn characters, who live and move with individuality and Interest. 
The heroine, Hilda, is at once charming, and a new creation in fiction.”— 
Godey's Magazine, Philadelphia. 

“ The conversations are lively and sparkling— the characters are always 
pure and true, and, although sometimes idealized beyond the requirements of 
a realistic standard, are not unnatural. The tone of the story is high, and its 
moral Bridgeport Standard. 


JOHN W. LOVELL 00., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. 


Hd^Bits or bonnebouches chosen from the wisest and wit* 
tiest words that find their way into %yrint about atl 
the topics that make the world interesting* 


THE CHEAPES'l' WEEKLY PUBLISHED. 


riD = BITS 

ILLUSTRATED. 

Offering, at the extremely low price of 

FIVE CENTS^ 

iiXTEEN Pages filled with the sifted goodness and richness of 
fie current periodicals and newspapers. 

It Never Trints a I>ull Line! 

Sixteen Pages filled with original matter written for 
td-Bits by the best writers. Tid-Bits tot aches the life of our 
imes on every sid(t, and is an “abstract and brief chronicle^ 
f current thought — grave and gay. 

HUMOROUwS ILLUSTRATIONS.— Tid-Bits’ car- 
bons are the work of the cleverest cari<iaturists. They are 
raphic and pointed. 

PRIZES. — A prize of $io is offered weekly for the best 
hort story — not necessarily original — submitted to the editor, 
nd prizes B'* 'nswers to questions of various sorts are also 
ffered from tim Ky -yj time. 

If there is anything new worth knowing you will find it in 
'id-Bits. 

If there is anything new worth laughing at you will find 
t in Tid-Bits. 

So much intedigence, liveliness, and humor cannot be 
lad for 5 cents in any other form. 

A sample copy will be sent free of postage to anyone 
ddressing the publishers. Subscription, $2.50 a year 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., 14 Vesey Stieet, New York. 


THE CELEBRATED 



Gi’and, Square and Upright 



PIANOFORTES 


A RS PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. ■ 


'u mands now made by an educated musical public are so exacting that very ^ew^ 
F''0irofr? te Manufacturers can produce Instruments that will stand the test which merit 
r v-.iji iiX'S SOUMER & CO., as Manufacturers, rank amongst these chosen few, who are 
«• 'k >>:' ledged to be makers of standard instruments. In these days, when Manufacturers ' 
<ne low price of their wares rather than their superior quality as an inducement to^ 
■pinch, it may not be amiss to suggest that, in a Piano, quality and price are too in-, 
s< y joined to expect the one without the other. _ 1 

nve* ? Piano ought to be judged as to the quality of its tone, its touch, and its work-^ 
■ i'ian;>ji ; ! ; if any one of these is wanting in excellence, however good the others may be.^ 
the iuetrument will be imperfect. It is the combination of these qualities in the highest, 
decree mat constitutes the perfect Piano, and it is this combination that has given the: 
” 301! J..SR” its honorable position with the trade and the public. | 

f^ereived First Prize Centennial Exhibition, Philadelphia, 1876. | 

Kei-ri'td First Prize at Exhibition, Montreal, Canada, 1881 and 1882.| 

SOHMER OO., Manufacturers, I 

149-155 East 14th St., New York.® 

A 




% 



. _ „ _ _ ^ ^ 

• > A ... ^ 

r? ";■ . 


S ' < O' O 


i • A^''^ -• 

'«..* A <. -1^' ,G^ 


p"^ * 1 ^^% 



. * '* A 

aA c ® ^ 
aN k 

O V 


'•o <?. ^ 

\ % ^ * 
o o 



^ *•*'«'* A® 







'■vP 

^P V • 


• aVx^ - 
‘ < 2 .'^ ■^ ♦ 




* aS 
V 


. 0'- X'°’‘‘ -"- 

♦ O^ Ay e 

■r O • 

’: -^ov^ i 

, ^ *‘'-® ^ A> ^ *»«<> 

■ ~ -j? v!k*i:.„ .-i 




.-1 • 




vPO • 


• aV'^ - 

4 '❖’<?* ,» 



o - 0 'Cft o 





A~ 


• aV<^ 

‘ 4^ 


.V ^ ® • » * A 

5^ ,*'■'• ♦ A.*^^ c ® " ® ♦ 

- ^ 4 ^(dZ/y^ ■» 

Jp .,. 








IA» * t ^ 0 •• O A 'v^ /nV « t ^ 




®''® ^ "'• <^^ ^ *®«® A® 

O CV - » • o <> e « • • ^ ^ f>^ 


► .A <. '"-V.** <G^ ' 

.<i^% 


• aV'^ 

‘ 4^ %■ \ 


o m k 




- -^b v^ : 

o Jp’^ ” ^^y//ii\'^-^ 

jy ^I’s.' > V 


\G^ ^ 'o.*'* a <> «G^ 


4 




'<P^ ♦’’.fA'^^ /k** .A ♦ ^rw « 


A" X 

v" -1*^ 


o > . 

• J?%. ‘‘Wjr»- N 

<0^ ♦ '' * O-r 

a'v 

.° 

A •* ® '^v ® 

V ♦ <»y o 

o « O ^ d^ • *• ' • ^ aG^ o ® ” ® ♦ ^ 





;* -sv^ • 





